Definitions
by JustlikeWater
Summary: "Everything has a definition: an unchanging, consistent meaning. But somehow John proves to be the exception to all of Sherlock's neat, tidy logic, because the one thing he cannot define, the one thing that refuses to be neatly categorized and stowed away for later use, is John." 9/4/14: On hiatus!
1. In Which John Evades Definition

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of its fabulous characters.**

**A/N: So, it's been a while! Life has just been so hectic lately that I've barely had the chance to get my hands on a keyboard, let alone write out a whole new story. In the past few months I discovered BBC's "Sherlock", thought it was absolutely amazing, and then proceeded to become completely obsessed. One particular aspect of the fandom that caught my eye was, understandably, the match-made-in-heaven couple, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. I simply could not resist writing a fanfic for them. **

**Anyway: Here is the first part of the story. Part 2 will be posted within at least the next two weeks, depending on how much free time I have between now and then. **Being that this is my first non-Harry potter fan fiction, I'm a bit nervous about how it will be received, so **feedback and criticism would be greatly appreciated. Enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock knew from the moment he entered the room that something about this man was different; something in his clothes, his stance, his gait; the way he stood tall and proud like a soldier but radiated soft, unyielding compassion like a doctor. He only vaguely registered that Mike had brought him here as a potential flat mate, because his mind was too preoccupied with deducing all of the complexities and intricacies of the man called John Watson. It was immediately apparent that wherever he'd served – Afghanistan or Iraq – he had not left willingly; clearly an injury and judging by the self conscious way he continued to rub his left shoulder, a bullet wound. An ugly one at that; something he would only allow the most trusted people to see.

(Midway through deducing Sherlock's mind halted because he found himself with the irrational desire to be one of those people and see the wound, and that was such a ridiculous thought that it took him a second to recollect himself and continue)

His phone was obviously a gift from a family member – "Harry" was engraved in its case, so clearly a brother – but all was not well between them, otherwise why would he be searching for a flat mate when he had a perfectly well sibling to offer dwelling arrangements? Ah. His brother was an alcoholic, then; that much was evident from the fumbled scratches on the phone's charging outlet. As for character, John was a typical, charismatic, easy-going bloke that laughed when jokes weren't funny to save someone the embarrassment and pretended all was well to spare a mate the trouble. He was the kind to remember birthdays and charm a girl's parents and fondly ruffle a small child's hair. He _should_ have been boring to Sherlock because of all his normality. He should've become an irrelevant bundle of facts once the deductions had been made, much like the others had, but something made Sherlock pause.

Right beneath the surface, directly underneath John's polite smiles and steady stride, there was a spark of something familiar; something Sherlock had seen in his own eyes and seldom in any one else's.

_The love of danger._

It was the addiction to the intoxicating rush of chasing criminals down dark alleyways or, in John's case, dressing a possibly fatal wound in the middle of a warzone with limited supplies and finite time and hands that had to be steady otherwise those feeble stitches would tear. It was the craving for piecing together clues to solve the puzzles to find the criminal and emerge victorious or saving someone's life in a world shrouded in death and feeling as if, for that one moment, it would all be worth it just to see this young man live.

Now that he knew what to look for, he could practically feel it radiating from John's skin. The want for danger, the need for the chase; the _lust _for excitement. And dull, insipid citizen life had none of those things that John craved; Sherlock knew the feeling all too well. This specific brand of restlessness created a busy, electric hum that vibrated in the nerves and reverberated throughout the mind as a result of inactivity. It was the same unrest that Sherlock felt when there were no cases, no murders, nothing to solve or fix or find or busy himself with.

John's hands shook but it was not from anxiety or trauma – as he knew John's therapist had diagnosed – it was from _longing. _He missed the war in all of its perilous allure.

In Sherlock's opinion that made him one of the most interesting men in London. (And his was the only opinion that really counted, anyway)

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He questioned, casually, as if inquiring about the store he'd purchased his shoes from.

John straightened and stared at him, head tilted slightly to the left in question. "Afghanistan. How'd you know that?"

And so Sherlock explained in a long stream of observations and conclusions, hardly stopping to take a breath and not even bothering to look at John while he did so. The entire time he remained hunched over his microscope, examining a slide of coagulated saliva. Once he'd finished, the room fell into silence and he found himself reluctant to look back up at John. Usually people glared at him, called him a freak or a stalker or worse, for reducing their lives to facts and coldly spoken data. Despite what he saw in John, he wasn't entirely certain he'd be any different from the others in this regard. As the seconds ticked by, it was becoming increasingly more likely that he would call him a nosy git and storm off, dashing any chance Sherlock had at getting a decent flat mate.

_Damn. _He really should have been more tactful. Of _course_ John wouldn't want to be picked apart like that; he was a proud soldier after all and probably valued his privacy. Sherlock felt a deep, achingly familiar sense of dread shroud him, because any second now John was going to leave and all of his potential and interesting qualities would leave with him. Sherlock would, once again, be alone with Mycroft and the goldfish.

He finally dared to glance up, fully prepared to form a stiff apology and goodbye, but he saw something so unexpected that his mind was wiped entirely blank and the words died on his lips.

John was _smiling._

"That was…amazing. That was bloody _brilliant_," John said at last, voice filled unabashedly with awe. He grinned and gripped the edge of the counter as if the sheer force of Sherlockian wonder made it difficult to remain steady.

Sherlock's pale eyes immediately searched John's for any semblance of dishonesty or sarcasm. But, no, there was just…amazement. John maintained a dazzling smile under his scrutiny, eyes bright with interest and marvel, and Sherlock quickly decided that John meant what he said. He felt his face heat at the unexpected – and absolutely rare – appreciation. He looked away, suddenly awkward.

"Was it?" He asked slowly, because a part of him still had doubts.

John smiled easily and nodded. He looked a bit bewildered, though, as if the fact that Sherlock needed affirmation on this was ridiculous because it was so obvious. "Yes, of course it was,"

And at that, Sherlock's shoulders relaxed and the tension left his form.

Minutes later, Sherlock enigmatically made arrangements for them to look at a flat, knowing full well John would be intrigued enough to go despite the vague details, before officially introducing himself in such a lavish, melodramatic fashion that he was sure his name would be etched into John's memory as long as he lived.

_The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street._ For some reason he even had the gall to _wink._

Then he exited with a theatrical swish of his black coat and waited at 221b for John's inevitable arrival.

* * *

John Watson managed to change his mind that day, and he continues to do so from every moment onward. This frustrates Sherlock because he is rarely wrong; _especially_ not about basic absolutions such as the fact that people are idiots. Yet, somehow, John proves him incorrect again and again, continuously shattering his previously unshakable views of the world.

People are basically selfish and cruel, which he quickly learned upon entering primary school and promptly being called freak. Yet _John_ is the kindest, most selfless man he knows.

People despise him for his mind, for his intelligence and skill, and take every opportunity to attempt to bring him down. Yet _John_ offers only praise and admiration when he displays his genius.

People always leave; they only stay as long as is convenient for them and then they go. Yet_ John_ has provided steadfast company at 221b and does not appear to want to leave any time soon. He is constant; he is _dependable._

People are stupid and dull. Yet _John_ is clever, albeit in a more subdued way than Sherlock. He is far more intelligent that Sherlock believes he is aware of, and there are moments when he sees John's own brand of genius shine through in the form of a shrewdly phrased question or seemingly pointless, but ultimately vital, observation.

_John _appears to be the loophole to everything he knows about people. As small, blonde speck within the fine print, if you will.

Sherlock prides himself on his vast knowledge and endless reserves of logic and reason. He relishes that he can hear a word like _pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism _and effortlessly explain that it is a medical condition in which one's blood contains normal levels of phosphorus and calcium. He finds comfort in the fact that he can name all of the bones in the human hand as easily as some might recite the alphabet; _Distal phalange, proximal phalange, trapezium, trapezoid, scaphoid, ulna, etcetera. _Give him a puzzle and he'll solve it in the time it takes you to raise an expectant brow. Tell him a handful of vague details and he'll piece together entire crime scenes. Spout a random word and he'll promptly define it.

_Electroencephalograph: noun; an instrument for measuring the brain's electric impulses_

_Ichthyophthalmite: noun; a hydrous silicate of calcium and potassium relating to zeolites_

His head is constantly swimming with information, facts, equations, theories, all swirling around in a whirlpool of endless thought. All sorts of knowledge, from the number of skin cells on the pad of one's thumb to the periodic table, bounce ceaselessly around inside his skull and he _loves_ it.

_There are 206 bones in the human body even though at birth there are 300. This is due to the fact that by the time the average person reaches adulthood many of the bones have fused together. _

_The chemical equation of cellular respiration is C6 H12 O6+6O2 6CO2+6H2O._

He takes all of those facts, all of that knowledge, and he holds them close like a treasure, like a shield, like a security blanket, because knowledge never fails him. Puzzles can always be solved and equations will always have an answer. He seeks and finds comfort in the steady absolution of facts. _Everything_ has a definition, an unchanging, consistent meaning.

But, once again, _John_ proves to be the exception to all of his neat, tidy logic.

Because the one thing he cannot define, the one thing that refuses to be neatly categorized and stowed away for later use, is _John._

Yes, Sherlock knows exactly how many bones John has in his foot, the amount of blood that pulses through his entire body at any given moment, and the intricate, weaving map of veins and tendons and muscles that stretch across the expanse of his form like a red-and-blue lined road map. He knows when John went to bed judging by where the handle of his mug is facing in the morning and the current status of his dating life by the way he knots his shoelaces. He knows that John served as an army doctor in Afghanistan, has an estranged sister, prefers no sugar in his tea, possesses an ungodly amount of jumpers, despises talk shows, loves the thrill of the chase just as much as he, and staunchly refuses to cancel plans if he's promised that he will go. Sherlock knows all of this about John, so he _should_ be able to construct a decent definition and just be done with it.

But the problem is John is always changing. Well, not changing so much as shifting: turning a certain way or saying a certain thing that adds yet anther layer to Sherlock's idea of him.

Some days he is every part doctor, when he scolds Sherlock for some careless experiment or another as he carefully blots at the resulting wound with a damp cloth, going on about why explosive chemicals and thin glass beakers ought not to be mixed. But if Sherlock winces because of either the peroxide or force of the blotting, John's eyes soften with concern and he stops to see if he's okay.

Other times, he is steadfastly loyal. When Donovan says something snide _No one likes you, freak, _John straightens, shoulders back and chin high like a man preparing for battle, and makes a point of clapping Sherlock's shoulder and starting a conversation with his focus undividedly on him as if to say _I do; I like him. _And as they walk away, engrossed in their subject because it's undoubtedly more interesting than Donovan's _drivel_, John makes sure to shoot an unpleasant look at her, just so she knows her opinions are not welcome.

When they run down the dark alleyways, splashing through black puddles and hopping haphazardly over rubbish bins, Sherlock sees a side of John that is reckless, adventurous, clever, quick-thinking, and hopelessly addicted to the rush of danger. When they stop chasing the man or running away from the man – whichever; they've done both equally often – and they are hunched over, hands on their knees, breathing hard into the night air, Sherlock steals a glance at John and finds his eyes glowing with delirious excitement that is so bright it's nearly blinding. His shining eyes are like the blue, smoldering center of a fire; unbearably bright and so alluring that he finds himself wanting to look deeper, step closer, reach in and grab whatever makes him look so radiant. Then John laughs sort of breathlessly as if to say _I can't believe we're bloody at this again_, a dazzling smile stretching his lips, and Sherlock quickly joins him because he can't believe it either.

Sherlock recalls the pool incident in which he held all three of their lives – Moriarty, John, himself – in his hands, or more specifically, in the gun that he had aimed at the semtex-laced jacket. He remembers John meeting his eyes and nodding once, slowly but certainly, silently telling him that he trusted Sherlock and whatever actions he needed to take. _That_ John was a mixture of _brave_ _soldier _and _utterly trusting colleague _and _fearless man _all wrapped into one.

And there's more; _so much more._ Every single day he spends with him, a new detail is added, more data surfaces, and yet another facet is added to the endlessly complex being that is John Hamish Watson.

(The middle name is an excellent example of unexpected information)

The fact that he cannot fully understand John frustrates him more than it should. Sherlock knows he is human – however reluctantly – and understands that as a human he cannot logically know _everything. _Regardless_, _that knowledge does nothing to quell the curiosity burning up his mind and eating through his thoughts.

Along with his inability to define John himself, he is also unable to define what they are as a pair. Colleagues? Yes, technically, but saying it that way makes them sound too unfamiliar with each other. Flat mates? Also true, but even worse than colleagues because it implies that their relationship is something born only from a mutual need for housing. Friends? Well…

The dilemma there is quite simply that Sherlock has never had a 'friend' and therefore has nothing to hold him and John in comparison to. He's seen others socialize with their 'friends' and from what he has observed and deduced, they are merely people that one enjoys being around sometimes and occasionally having a laugh with. He's heard Lestrade casually mention that he and Donovan are friends, and given that woman's generally unappealing nature, that makes Sherlock question the validity of such a label. He also knows Mrs. Hudson considers Martha Scott from down the street a friend, and yet she's always happy to gossip about the woman's troublesome teenage nephew and ridiculous cat-sweater collection.

'Friend' simply seems too meaningless a word to apply to John.

Sherlock realizes that his desire to define their relationship surpasses his desire to define John himself. He supposes he can live with never fully knowing his flat mate – its does make life rather exciting – but he what he can't live with is the giant question mark connecting both of their names in his mind palace. Because that signifies a lack of information, meaning the room in which John-related thoughts are designated is incomplete.

Sherlock cannot be satisfied with incompletion. So, he does what he does best and decides the only way to find out is by collecting data and drawing conclusions.

* * *

Sherlock walks down the morgue corridor brusquely, eyes trained keenly on the nervous looking woman holding a bag of toes at the end. As he gets closer, her cheeks visibly tint and her eyes fall to something on the floor.

"H-hello, Sherlock. I, er, I kept these at exactly negative eighteen degrees Celsius like you asked,"

He gracefully swipes the bag from her and drops it into his coat pocket without a second glance. "Thank you, Molly," He says, smoothly. "Actually there were two reasons why I came here to see you,"

Her eyes widen and a brief look of panic flickers across her face. "Oh, no, did you want the fingers too? Because I'm afraid those were accidentally thrown out by one of the doctors last weekend. I-I'm sure the dumpsters might still be in the lot, we could go check," She looks distressed and possibly on the verge of tears – or worse, an endless stream of apologetic babble – so he makes a point of cutting her off.

"No need to worry, Molly, I actually forgot about the fingers entirely," He hadn't forgotten about the fingers and in fact needs them for an upcoming experiment, but he doesn't want to upset Molly so he lies. He needs her in a good state of mind for what he is about to ask, anyway.

She seems shocked at his uncharacteristic display of consideration, but the relief on her face is palpable and her typical manner of shy happiness returns. "What did you need?"

"Well, it's a question, actually, that I'd like you to answer,"

"Okay, what do you need to know?" She asks, pleasantly. "I can go grab some of the medical records we have in the back, we've recently added a few new folders of diseases and their effects on the immune system, as well as several lab write-ups on this fantastic, recently discovered mold called-"

"Actually, Molly," He cuts in, "I was hoping to speak to you about your view on something personal,"

She raises a brow in surprise, because it is not often that he comes to her seeking advice on non-cadaver related subjects. "Er, okay, what do you want to know?"

He clears his throat awkwardly and suddenly becomes aware that they are alone in an empty hallway. He decides that he'd rather have this conversation without her attention undividedly on him, because what he is about to ask is bloody uncomfortable enough without those large, calf-like eyes staring at him.

"Would you mind if we had this conversation in the lab?" He asks pointedly. He needs a familiar setting, at least, given how unfamiliar everything else about this conversation will be. He is well aware the request is silly but feels nonetheless relieved that she doesn't comment on it. Instead she just smiles and nods like an eager puppy, immediately turning on her heel and beginning the short walk to the lab with a bounce in her step. In the back of his mind, he notes the dilatation of her pupils, increased color in her cheeks, and smile on her face and wonders what she thinks he wishes to discuss with her. She doesn't think he's going to…ask her out, right? For one horrifying moment he contemplates a scenario in which Molly is under such an impression and because of it, tries to do something horrid like _hug _him. _Egad,_ or worse; _kiss_ him.

He mentally groans and thinks that perhaps he shouldn't have told a very obviously infatuated Molly Hooper that he wished to speak of something personal and demand to continue the conversation in a relatively private room, after being uncharacteristically nice to her. Of course she would draw conclusions.

As he continues walking, he attempts to prepare an adequate statement of rejection.

When they reach the lab, Molly steps inside and flicks on the heavy switch by the door, flooding the room in clinical, bright light. She makes a beeline for a tray of Petri dishes filled with what appear to be several types of poisonous molds, already donning her customary goggles and gloves. She grins down at the tray and holds one of the dishes up to the light, examining the mold through its clear underside.

"You might want to take a look at these later, Sherlock," She says, eagerly, "We've just started growing them. They're rather uncomplicated in composition, but utterly deadly if mixed with certain chemicals, or exposed to certain temperatures,"

Sherlock has to bite down the urge to stride over, sweep the entire tray into his arms, and spend the rest of the afternoon examining and taking notes. He came here with a purpose; there is always time for experimenting with Chaetomium, Fusarium, and other such interesting types of mold.

After one last glance at the tray, Molly turns back to face him, eyes bright. "So what did you want to ask me, Sherlock?" She smiles dazzlingly, cheeks colored a deep, saturated pink.

He decides then that the best way to deal with this situation is to be as blunt and straight-forward as possible; he'll just come right out with it.

"Molly Hooper, what are John and I?"

She stops smiling immediately, her expression melting into confusion and surprise at his abrupt shift in subject. She is utterly blank for the moment it takes her brain to catch up and recognize the question.

"You…and John?" She asks, still puzzled.

"Yes, John and I. What are we?" He repeats, impatiently. Honestly, what is so complicated about this question?

"You want _my_ opinion on this?"

_No, I want the Queen's opinion. Of course I want yours; why else would I ask you?_

"Yes," replies Sherlock, shortly.

She furrows her brow and considers the question for a long moment. After some time she finally meets his eyes again, looking somewhat amused.

"I think you two are friends, very close friends in fact. Is there any reason why you need to know this all of a sudden?"

He ignores the latter part of her response. "Molly, the qualifications of a 'friend' are very loose and very minimal. Why, the definition itself is so meaningless that I could say _Anderson_ and I are bloody friends! It simply isn't the correct term; it is not enough,"

"So you're more than friends?"

"Yes, obviously," He snaps. How could she, for one minute, think that John Watson is worth no more than the meager title of 'friend'? It baffles him that the thought has even crossed her mind.

"Well, how about this: you tell me how you feel about John, what you think of him, and I'll tell you what you two are in more certain terms," She suggests, carefully.

He nods, appeased. This logical approach is certainly something he can abide by.

"I respect John, find him interesting and a worthy companion, consider him a good man, and enjoy his presence,"

Molly raises an amused eye brow. "But you're telling me that you're not friends?"

"No. The title is too inadequate,"

"Well," She says slowly, vainly attempting to work a smile from her mouth, "You've pretty much just described the definition of a friend, so yes; I reckon you and John are friends,"

"But…no. We aren't. We can't be. I mean, Molly, for god's sake, _Anderson_ is someone's friend! How can _John_ be put in the same category as _Anderson_?" He doesn't bother attempting to mask the blatant horror in his tone. John is, in no way, shape, or form, even _slightly_ similar to Anderson, so they definitely should not be put under the same label, no matter how broad.

Molly's lips quirk and she shakes her head, seemingly endeared by his antics. He doesn't know what the hell is so humorous, because there is nothing remotely funny about Anderson and John being spoken in the same sentence, let alone grouped under a mutual title.

"Sherlock, 'friend' means something different to everyone. There is no blanket definition to it, because it changes depending on the context, the people involved, and their relationships. And besides, if you two aren't friends, then what else could you possibly be?"

He huffs impatiently. "And so we arrive back to my original question,"

Molly sighs and busies herself with removing her gloves. "Sherlock, why not just ask John yourself? I'm sure he'd be happy to tell you,"

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her currently bowed head and scowls. She's lucky that she's too preoccupied with those gloves to notice, because it's a rather fierce scowl. If Sherlock could just 'ask John' then why would he be here bothering with _her_ at all? Obviously he can't, otherwise he would be speaking with John right this minute! Molly is intelligent but good _lord_ she can be daft.

He's past the point of censoring himself, so he simply says out loud what he has just thought. Molly responds by looking bemused.

"And why can't you ask John?"

"Because, Molly, the information that I am collecting is for the strict purpose of filling his room in my mind palace and what occurs in my mind palace is no one's business, especially not his. Besides, people tend to lie or sugarcoat, anyway; if I asked him he might tell me something he doesn't actually believe, just to appease me. Not to mention the fact that my fixation on the subject might disturb him, in turn making him question his comfort at Baker Street and eventually prompting him to leave. And, obviously, I don't plan on allowing that to happen. This experiment is solely for my own purposes, so John does not need to know anything about it. I need solid, concrete information, which can only be achieved by garnering facts and observations and drawing a conclusion," He replies in one, terse breath.

For a moment her face is utterly blank, as it usually is after he extensively explains something in that deep, enunciated drawl of his. Then a large, ridiculous smile breaks across her face and she giggles into her hand. He stares at her with nearly comical confusion, completely thrown off by her response.

"What? What is funny?" He demands.

She shakes her head and grins at him once more. "Sherlock Holmes, do you realize how completely sweet you are being?" Her laughter is revived at the sight of his appalled expression. "You've just admitted to several rather endearing things. To start, you've disclosed that you have an _entire room_ in your mind palace for John. As long as I've known you, I have never heard of a person taking up a corner – let alone a _room_ – of your precious mental space, and yet you've known John for less than a year and he has already done so. Second, you've confessed that you need John's company, which isn't surprising as I already gathered as much, but for you to admit it? That's certainly impressive. And, lastly, this is honest-to-god the furthest you've ever delved into an experiment that wasn't crime-related; especially because this directly pertains to a_ person_, something that has always managed to escape your interest," She smiles at him and raises an eyebrow. "If you two aren't friends, then I really, really do not know what else to call it,"

Molly has a point. His behavior is rather unusual when it comes to John – unusual in a positive way, he supposes – so it's only logical to draw the conclusion that the cause is something equally as odd. They are…friends. Hm. He rolls the word around in his mouth for a moment before speaking it out loud.

"Friends?" He tries, experimentally. It feels odd on his tongue.

She nods serenely and leans back against the counter. "Yes, friends. Although, er, if I didn't know better, I'd say…" She purposefully trails off and the conspiratorial smile returns, albeit a bit softer this time. "Well, judging by your blatant admiration of him alone, I'd say you have a crush on him, Sherlock,"

His eyes blow wide open and he finds himself at loss for words. A _crush?_

Molly manages to contain herself for an impressive ten seconds before dissolving into laughter, her eyes merry and bright. "I'm only kidding, Sherlock. No need to look as if you've seen a ghost,"

He merely blinks.

After a few moments, she sobers somewhat – the smile remains, though – and considers him, contemplatively. "Or at least I think I was kidding. Do you, Sherlock? Have a, er, crush on John, I mean?" She clears her throat awkwardly.

Well, he thinks to himself, if he had any preconceived ideas about how uncomfortable this conversation was going to become, then they've been greatly exceeded. He closes his eyes and wonders why they're talking about him hypothetically fancying John when there are so many other things they ought to be discussing and that he'd much rather prefer.

"John is not interested in _men_, Molly. If you couldn't tell as much from the endless parade of women going to and from the flat, then you're far more obtuse than I'd assumed," He snaps, impatiently.

He waits for the hurt to flash across her features, for her mouth to tighten and her eyes to dim in offense, but instead she just keeps staring at him as if she hadn't even heard the bite in his tone. She looks surprised, if anything.

"Sherlock," she begins, slowly, "You do realize that you didn't deny fancying John, right? You just said he wasn't interested. You said nothing about how _you _feel,"

He stops glaring at her and straightens. He mentally reviews his own words and realizes, with no small amount of surprise, that his knee-jerk response to Molly's accusation was not to deny its truth, but to point out the logical reasons why _John_ would not be interested. His brow furrows and he feels himself sinking deeper into his mind palace to mull this over. For a moment of introspection he attempts to answer Molly's question in the privacy of his mind:

Does he fancy John?

He considers all of the ridiculous jumpers, perfectly brewed cups of tea, gentle smiles, conspiratorial glances, steady hands, bright eyes, loud, contagious laughter, and he decides that he certainly feels some form of _affection_ and _care_ for John. He knows that he'd rather die than allow John to be hurt, or even worse, taken away from him, and he is well aware that John is the only person whose company he truly enjoys. He recognizes the gentle warmth that blooms in his chest at John's smiles or awe-filled compliments, along with the deep, unshakable calm that engulfs him whenever John is within arm's reach. He acknowledges it, he really does.

The_ problem_ is this: where is the line drawn between romantic feelings and platonic feelings? Just because he lo- _cares_ for John, does that mean he wants to be with him? Or is this how people typically feel in friendships? Sherlock wouldn't know, as he's never experienced either as long as he's been alive. It's ridiculous to think that a thirty-five year old man would have utterly no experience with love or friendship, but that is simply the way Sherlock is and because of it he is completely clueless.

He blinks once, twice, and refocuses on Molly who has been watching him uncertainly from her position near the counter, a look of concern coloring her features.

"Sherlock?" she questions carefully.

"I don't know, Molly. I don't think I fancy John, but then again, how can I be sure? I deeply care for him and I like him quite a lot, but does that mean I think of him romantically?" He furrows his brow in genuine frustration. He despises not knowing things and this particular subject has always been a difficult spot for him, something he endlessly struggles to wrap his mind around. Why do human emotions have to be so bloody _complicated_?

She bites her lip and looks reluctant, as if steeling herself to say something uncomfortable, before her features settle and she looks decisive. With a deep breath she asks, "Do you think of John sexually?"

He nearly jerks back at her completely uncharacteristic bluntness, only just managing to control the automatic response of flinching. "No, no of course not," he replies quickly and with complete certainty, "I mean, I've thought about maybe…maybe hugging John – I've done that once or twice and it wasn't bad – but I certainly am not harboring any kind of sexual frustration over him,"

"And kissing?"

He considers this for a moment. He and John, being the reckless, danger-hungry people they are, have gotten themselves in several very strange positions over the past year, most involving both high levels of adrenaline and rather close proximity; in other words, the perfect situation for a dramatic kiss. Sherlock recalls once being literally _tied_ to John – some shoddy jewel thief that was promptly caught and convicted mere minutes after he'd haphazardly bound the two of them – their noses nearly touching and close enough to easily edge forward and close the inches between them with a kiss.

And yet they had not.

Why? Perhaps it was because John would not stop giggling like a bloody schoolgirl, since the situation was – once again – so utterly ridiculous and simultaneously dangerous that the only thing to do was laugh. He had been resolutely ignoring John's childish – but undeniably amusing – antics, instead staring at the shelf behind him where the thief had clearly left his poor excuse of a knife and thus their way out. He'd wasted no time in tricking the simpleton into retrieving it – honestly, though, where was the fun if the criminal was an idiot – then freeing them from their restraints. As the police had arrived and Sherlock was brushing off the lapel of his coat – the ropes had done some slight damage to the material, unfortunately – John had looked at him with an amazed, unabashedly adoring expression on his face and let out a small laugh of disbelief, as he usually did when Sherlock impressed him. Sherlock himself hardly considered their escape noteworthy, but since it always pleased him to see John like that, he didn't bother refuting the inevitable stream of praise that came next.

Later, on the cab ride home, when John had been going on about something or another (probably more exclamations about how great this would look on his blog), Sherlock had found himself feeling somewhat dazed and enthralled by the shining, bright look in John's eyes. They were like whirl pools – sparkling cerulean dotted by flecks of dark blue – and Sherlock felt as if he were being swallowed whole. It was strange, but he experienced the briefest urge to lean in and stop John's rapidly moving mouth with his own. It wasn't a sexual impulse – something fiery, passionate, or lustful – Sherlock had simply wanted to be _closer_ to John. Even though they were already sitting a bit more intimately than usual – inches from being pressed together shoulder to thigh – he'd wanted to get even closer, even deeper and further, because John was so _alive_ and _brilliant_ and he was_ glowing _and _grinning_ and Sherlock desperately wanted to be a part of such unadulterated joy. Sherlock felt drawn to him in the same way a moth was attracted to a flame. Both John and fire were blindingly bright with an indefinable magnetism that beckoned the viewer closer, nearer, further, all in the hopes of absorbing even a fraction of their warmth.

Sherlock had wanted to touch that flame.

He'd wanted to thread his fingers through John's hair, flatten his palms over the excited rise and fall of his chest, brush fingertips down the bridge of his nose, run a thumb over the grinning swell of his bottom lip, grab the sides of his face and peer into his cloudless blue eyes and fall utterly into their depths. He'd wanted to wrap his arms around John and just hold him there tightly, his face buried inches deep into his shampoo-smelling hair, John's nose pressed unceremoniously into his collarbones. He wished that he could crawl inside John's head, behind his blue eyes, inside his bones, and within the red and blue crisscrosses of veins to discover what it would be like to be so loved and so brave and so bloody _interesting._

Sherlock had never experienced such impulses before and felt rather shaken as the tide of unexpected emotion crashed and gradually ebbed away, while John, unaware, continued to speak happily of the case beside him. He'd been glad that John was still rather poor at deducing, otherwise his rigid posture and clenched fists would have been clear indicators of his inner turmoil.

"_Sherlock," _In the time he has spent reliving his memories and mulling over their meanings, Molly has crossed the room and placed a small hand on his arm. "You've been staring at empty air for about five minutes now, are you alright?"

He says nothing, only glances pointedly at her hand resting on his bicep. She looks startled and quickly retracts it, faint blush staining her cheeks. After a beat of recovery she says, "Okay, so obviously the subject of kissing hit a nerve," She pauses to consider the implications of why that is and the blush immediately returns with vengeance. "Oh…_oh_. So then you've…you…h-have you and John, er, kissed before, then?" Molly fumbles.

He rolls his eyes, about to complain about what a stupid question that is, but then bites it back under the recognition that it isn't a terribly unreasonable conclusion to draw.

"No, we have not." Sherlock responds, succinctly.

Except, well, that isn't exactly true.

There was one instance a few weeks ago in which he and John had been watching some awful show on telly and John had fallen asleep beside him on the sofa, despite his earlier insistence that the show was brilliant and "kept him on the edge of his seat". Sherlock glanced over at his soundly-sleeping flatmate and rolled his eyes, mentally begging to differ. After watching John sleep for a few minutes, his eyes flickering over every detail from the blonde hue of his eyelashes to the small crease of concentration that formed between his brows, Sherlock found himself feeling, once again, hopelessly curious. Sherlock carefully rose from his end of the couch, mindful not to disturb John, before walking around their coffee table and crouching down right beside John's peacefully slumbering form. His eyes darted across the tanned landscape of his flatmate's face, jumping from eyebrows to nose to ears to hair to…lips. With increasing interest he peered closer at John's mouth, somewhat thin and pink and rather pleasantly shaped. He thought back to all of the times he'd seen it curve into a smile or smirk, or even an angry pout, and he felt a strange surge of affection blossom within his chest. He wasn't sure what compelled him to do so, but without further thought he leaned forward and experimentally pressed his lips to John's forehead. John's skin was warm and familiar and up-close it smelled of tea, body soap, sweet fabric softener, and another scent that was entirely John. It'd made Sherlock feel dazed and comfortable and unbearably warm. He'd closed his eyes and kept his lips there, soft and scarcely brushing John's forehead, temporarily shutting down his thoughts and basking in the feeling.

However, as soon as it occurred to Sherlock that he was kissing his flat mate while he slept, he jerked back and blinked out of the haze, mentally promising to never do such a thing again.

And so far he hasn't, though not for lack of wanting to.

His mind grinds to a halt as he considers that last thought. _Not for lack of wanting to_? So then he _does_ want to kiss John again? Just as his thoughts begin to scramble and jumble even further, it occurs to him that perhaps he shouldn't be having these very private realizations in a lab with Molly Hooper.

"Er, Sherlock, don't take offense if this isn't the case, but it really does seem like perhaps you –"

Sherlock cuts her off with a halting hand motion and equally uninviting expression. "Molly, thank you for your time, but I really must be off," he announces abruptly, pulling his coat back on in a very no-nonsense manner. Before Molly even has the chance to reply, he has swept from the room, his long, swift stride making it impossible for her to keep up.

"Good day, Molly Hooper," He calls over shoulder as he pushes the doors open dramatically. Molly stares after him, bemused, wondering what on earth just happened.

* * *

Sherlock is sprawled elegantly across the couch, eyes closed and completely submerged in his mind palace, when John walks in haphazardly balancing several bags of shopping in his arms. Sherlock blinks one eye open to peer at his heavily laden flat mate and then immediately shuts it again, blatantly ignoring John's need for assistance. He is in the middle of contemplating am important case and cannot afford distractions, and because John is the most distracting thing on the planet, he cannot give him more than a brief glance. If he dares to look at his flat mate for more than that, he'll become the same hopelessly-infatuated sod that he's been for the past few weeks, scanning every one of John's movements and gestures as if they were the most important things in the word.

"Yes, don't mind me, I'm just fine!" John snaps, irritated. He grumbles testily to himself while he heaves the bags onto the table with a loud crash. Sherlock listens for the sound that is produced and from it deduces that John has bought an unusual amount of cakes and sweets, meaning he is in need of comfort food and therefore in a bad mood. Attempting to placate him will be pointless, because things are about to become considerably worse once John swings open the fridge and discovers the unfortunate mess that has saturated the shelves, thanks to a particularly leaky bag of thumbs. Sherlock adjusts himself into a more comfortable position and calmly begins the countdown.

_Ten…nine…eight_

John is rustling around in the bags for the non-perishables first, as per tradition. The cupboard creaks as he puts the tea away along with a sleeve of vanilla – no, chocolate – biscuits

_Seven…six…five_

Now he's trying to recall if he picked up the right brand of coffee. He is turning it in his hands, muttering that he should've written down the name from the previous can to make sure he bought the correct one. He sets it down in its customary spot, annoyed, and moves on to the milk and yogurt.

_Three… two… _

Holding the carton, opening the door…

_One._

"_Sherlock Holmes what the bloody hell is this?" _

Sherlock removes his steepled fingers from his lips and sighs. No matter what he says John will be furious with him, probably yell about responsibility and cleanliness and other such dull things, and then say he needs to 'get some air' (which is actually code for 'take a long angry walk to the pub, sit around with idiots that I used to like back in uni, grow tired of people in general, miss the comfort of 221B, and return home in a much better mood'). Which Sherlock is fine with, by the way. He simply wishes he could skip the part where John is upset with him; he hates seeing those typically bright, sparkling eyes turn dark and stormy with anger. However, as it is unavoidable, he decides to just rip off the metaphorical band aid and face the inevitable.

"It is the congealed liquid residue that leaked from my bag of thumbs. Mrs. Hudson probably moved them when she was restocking the fridge and tore the bag by mistake," he calls, wondering if John can hear him over all of that loud banging he is doing in the kitchen. Sounds of pots and pans clattering on the counter and cupboards slamming fill the small flat. _Oh, the music of the angered domestic_, Sherlock thinks to himself, fighting the urge to press his hands over his ears rather immaturely in an attempt to block out the noise.

John rounds the corner with a box of uncooked pasta in his hand, probably the next thing he plans to angrily shove into the cabinets, and simply stares at him.

"And you didn't clean it up why?" John asks in a composed, colorless tone. A less observant person might even say he looks calm. However, since Sherlock knows John the way he knows almost everything else – with frightening accuracy and complete familiarity – he notices that John's shoulders are hiked up just enough to show the tension in his muscles, his fists tremble faintly with the suppressed urge to hit something, and there is a steady flush of anger crawling from his collar across his face. He is also flexing his fingers ever so slightly.

"John," he says, slowly.

"Sherlock," John replies, evenly. He clenches his jaw and flexes his fingers again. "Is it really so bloody difficult to clean up after yourself, Sherlock?" he asks, but judging by the way he rapidly continues speaking he isn't looking for a response. "Because it truly puzzles me that a man of your mental ability cannot manage to do something as simple as clean up a spill. Put away some beakers. Wrap up a damned_ disembodied head_ and not leave it on display like this is some kind of horror factory. Is it really that hard for you, Sherlock?" his volume is beginning to climb now, the box of spaghetti long forgotten on the countertop. "Because if it is, Sherlock, if it is truly _beyond_ your realm of understanding, then just tell me now and I'll never dare to ask you to perform such a task again, alright? Is that alright, Your Highness?" he spits, angry and unreasonable and _thisclose_ to saying something truly scathing.

"I…" Sherlock pauses and considers his next words. His kneejerk response is to dismiss the mess with an uninterested wave of his hand and move on to more important things instead. It's just a sticky shelf, after all. If John chooses to overreact then he can do so somewhere other than here; perhaps on one of his trips to 'get some air'.

It should be the easiest thing in the world to simply reply with _I fail to see how this warrants such a reaction. Perhaps you ought to consider the real source of your anger that undoubtedly stems from your thankless job instead of wasting time by scolding me. _

But he doesn't; he _can't_. The words simply won't leave his lips, no matter how he tries, because he cares about John's bad day at work and as reluctant as he is to admit it, he feels _sorry_. He hates the way John is looking at him – angry, disappointed, and annoyed – and even though he knows those feelings are misdirected and fleeting, it doesn't make it hurt any less. He experiences, for the first time in a while, the pressing urge to just apologize because the thought of leaving things as they are is too unbearable. He bites the inside of his cheek and wishes John would just _stop glaring at him already _because it feels bloody awful.

"I'm sorry, John," he says at last, his voice sounding oddly small.

John blinks, completely thrown off by his response. "What?" The anger melts from his face in seconds and his arms fall limply to his sides.

"I said I'm sorry. I'll try to be neater next time around," he repeats, a bit stiffly this time. The words sound strange coming from him and he can tell John feels the same, because he peers at Sherlock as if he's just grown a third eye.

John continues to look confused until something in his expression clears and a realization dawns on him. "Bloody hell, you're ill, aren't you?" John asks, immediately flying into 'concerned doctor' mode. He crouches down beside the sofa and presses a warm hand to Sherlock's forehead, his eyes flickering rapidly across his face. "You don't appear to be sick, but I can't rule out hallucinogenic poisons, can I? Perhaps someone slipped something into your drink while we were on that case earlier. Unlikely, yes, but you did leave your cup unattended for a bit, so someone clever could've easily snuck over, " Sherlock indignantly protests, pushing futilely at John's persistent, worried hands as they attempt to feel his pulse and check his pupil dilation. "Sherlock, quit moving about will you?" he mutters absently as he attempts to examine Sherlock's displeased, narrowed eyes. _This is truly ridiculous,_ Sherlock thinks to himself.

"John," he interjects impatiently, fully prepared to end all of this nonsense because he is absolutely _not _ill.

John ignores Sherlock and rises from the floor in favor of the spot across from him. When Sherlock shows no intention of moving, John sighs exasperatedly.

"Okay, Sherlock, the most I can effectively do from this position is give you a foot rub, so kindly move?" John drops a pillow beside his thigh and pats it, "Put your head here; it'll be easier for me to inspect your eyes and heart rate," he explains, digging into his pocket for the compact flashlight he frequently uses at the clinic and makes a habit of always carrying.

Sherlock knows with utter certainty that curling up beside John's leg to be blatantly stared at and prodded is an awful idea. Hell, he can't even be within the same room as John without losing his damned mind, let alone being literally _pinned down_ by his gaze and careful, concerned hands.

He shouldn't, he really shouldn't. He should just say that he is not ill in that sharp, brittle tone of his, then primly rise from the couch and claim that the apology was due to some kind of mental lapse. That's what he should do. That's what he_ must_ do.

That's what he doesn't do.

As he flips his position and settles his head on the Union Jack pillow four-point-five inches from John's left thigh, he concludes that a disregard for logic is just one of the many side-effects of infatuation.

John's expression briefly flickers with triumph, before he leans down to press his fingers to Sherlock's neck in search of his pulse. Sherlock freezes. John's hand feels warm and oddly soothing against his cool skin and he unconsciously relaxes into the touch. Even though this place on his body is one of the most vulnerable – the throat can be crushed, maimed, and smashed in several very simple ways, after all – he feels no sense of danger or alarm when John's fingers gently brush against the hardy throb of his carotid artery, nor does he mind when John uses his other hand to sweep his hair back from his forehead in search of fever. It feels strangely wonderful to be doted upon so attentively, especially by John's careful, unwittingly affectionate hands. He closes his eyes for a moment and melts into the feeling, completely deaf to the concerned muttering John does under his breath as he inspects. John doesn't seem to be aware of it, but the entire time his eyes are sweeping his face and forming a possible diagnosis, his hands continue to absently rake through Sherlock's hair even though there is no longer a need to search for fever. It feels rather pleasant.

"How are your hydration levels?" asks John.

"Mm fine,"

"Really. Well, how many glasses of water have you had in the past three days? Because I'm fairly certain you and I have different ideas of what passes for 'fine'"

Why must John ask about such useless things? Who cares about water? Water is boring. What_ isn't_ boring, however, is the way John's fingers are kneading Sherlock's scalp and raking through his thick hair, causing laser-hot sparks of pleasure to shoot down his spine. Mm. Thoughts blur into each other and he forgets what John has just asked, far too preoccupied with the blissful massage.

"Okay, pulse is normal, pupil dilatation normal, no fever…Sherlock, did you just moan?" John asks, abruptly breaking his own stream of analysis with a strange look on his face. Sherlock stiffens and opens his eyes. _Did _he just moan?He can not quite recall, but considering the delicious feeling John's gently massaging fingers had been supplying, he cannot give a firm statement of denial. He mentally sighs because it is now a matter of seconds before John realizes what he's been doing and immediately stops. He doesn't bother with a countdown this time.

John proves him correct, as usual, when he glances down at his preoccupied hands and looks startled to find them tangled rather deeply in Sherlock's dark, raven curls. "Wait, what am I doing?" He asks, taken aback, as if someone else put his hands there for him. He immediately pulls them free, careful not to catch any knots on the way. "Er, sorry about that," he amends, awkwardly.

Sherlock sits up, ending their contact completely (much to his regret). "John,"

John just blinks, clearly still focused on the fact that he was just massaging his flat mate's head mere seconds previous. "Yes?" he asks, slowly.

"John, I'm okay. I'm not ill and I haven't been poisoned or brainwashed or abducted by extraterrestrials or whatever other conclusions you were bound to jump to. I'm completely fine," he repeats, sitting up and placing his hands on John's shoulders to calm him. As soon as he does so he becomes very aware of their proximity once again and has to force himself to pull his hands back.

"You're not sick," John repeats, blankly. Bit by bit blush splotches his cheeks and his expression turns embarrassed. "Then why the bloody hell did you just let me _inspect_ you?" he asks, mortified.

"You were insistent that there was a problem, despite my protests. It seemed wiser to simply let you do what you wanted rather than attempt to convey logic," he answers succinctly, sounding far more composed than he actually is. He completely brushes over the supposed moan and is extremely relived when John does the same. (Sherlock has a feeling that has more to do with John's forgetfulness rather than his willingness to look over something suggestive, but he'll gladly take what he can get)

"Well, yes, of course I thought something was wrong! You said…well, you, er," John's brow furrows as he attempts to articulate an account of what happened. "You said sorry," he finishes simply, expression bewildered.

"Yes? And?" Sherlock asks, impatiently. Really, it's a bit disappointing that John's first reaction to a genuine apology is to check for signs of poison, drugs, or illness. He supposes it has not occurred to John that he apologized simply to _please_ him. Though, Sherlock cannot truly blame him for being unaware because that line of reasoning makes even less sense than the others, given own rather barren historywith emotions and caring.

"You apologized and you meant it," John concludes at last, looking somewhere between mystified and pleased. He finally decides to lean more towards the latter and smiles warmly, his hand extending to grip Sherlock's shoulder amicably. Sherlock flinches away, but not out of repulsion, rather because of the pleasant-but-strange sparks that seem to explode from wherever John's skin meets his. It is alien and distracting and Sherlock cannot control the gut-reaction of jerking away from it. He regrets it immediately when John takes the motion differently and pulls his hand back, a distressed look on his face. He clearly thinks Sherlock is angry with him for being loud, irrational, and unreasonable. Sherlock is too busy trying to ignore the pleasant warmth that pulsates from his shoulder where John touched him to bother refuting John's very incorrect conclusion. He couldn't possibly be less angry at the moment, actually. But John can't read minds so he sighs and chews his bottom lip thoughtfully, before looking back up to meet Sherlock's eyes with an apologetic gaze of his own.

"Sherlock, you did not need to apologize. I was being irrational and crabby because of something that happened at work; it had nothing to do with you and your spilled thumbs," he smiles slightly at the odd phrase, "I was quite out of line and you did not deserve to have abuse shouted at you. If anyone should be sorry here, it's me,"

"It's quite alright, John. That snappy woman had no right to yell at you today; no wonder you were in a rubbish mood," he commiserates in the most sympathetic voice he can muster. He truly does care and wish to comfort John, but he's just so bloody awful at it that sometimes he must resort to plain-old acting and hope for the best.

"How'd you know she – actually, I don't want to know," John decides. "Either way, I feel much better now, so it no longer matters,"

"Sure it does. You've been waiting all day to rant about it." Sherlock adjusts himself so that he and John are facing each other from opposite sides of the couch. "I'm, as they say, 'all ears',"

John grins at that. "Alright, alright, since you asked," he clears his throat and settles himself against a cushion. "She was rather large, giant-like to be honest…"

* * *

For the three nights that follow, he lays awake, staring at the ceiling, asking himself how something as simple as John _brushing hair from his forehead _can make fireworks explode behind his eyelids and set his veins thrumming. Just the_ memory _of it sends warmth flooding through his chest.

He tosses and turns restlessly. He is no closer to defining his relationship with John than he was weeks ago when he consulted Molly. With a resigned sigh, he decides that it is time to ask for a second opinion. It's not spectactualrly late yet, so he reaches on his nightstand for his mobile and taps in a famialr number.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson, I was wondering if perhaps we could have tea tomorrow? There are a few things I wish to discuss…"

* * *

"You know, Sherlock, I can't say this comes as a shock. If anything, I'm surprised it took you this long to come to your senses," Mrs. Hudson says warmly, pushing a plate of biscuits in his direction, a smile lightening her features.

Sherlock glances down at the sweets – plain chocolate, his favorite, and some puffy, raspberry ones that he knows John fancies – and politely accepts one, though he suspects that he wouldn't have had the option of refusing anyway, considering the intent way his landlady is watching him eat it. (Why is everyone in his life so fixated on his dietary habits? Are they really all that interesting?) He deduces that she made them herself and spent a total of two hours baking then decorating them. He genuinely likes Mrs. Hudson and thus feels the need to show some form of appreciation.

Sherlock takes a hearty bite, "Yum," he offers, unconvincingly. Despite his best efforts, the word comes out sounding alien and borderline comical in his deep, unanimated baritone.

Mrs. Hudson chuckles good-naturedly and takes the seat across from him. "Dear, I've known you long enough not to be offended if you don't exclaim praise when eating my baked goods. Thank you for the effort, though," she beams at him. The two settle into comfortable silence for a bit, the only sounds coming from the quiet radio in the sitting room. He eats another biscuit to occupy his hands and mouth. Mrs. Hudson looks thoughtful, then decisive.

"Sherlock, dear, now about why you came here…" she purposefully trails off to allow him to switch his mindset to the topic she wishes to discuss.

The topic: John. (Seems as if everything revolves around those four letters these days)

He really shouldn't feel so reluctant to broach this subject, considering he was the one to call Mrs. Hudson yesterday, asking to come over. It was a very uncharacteristic course of action for him to take – consulting other people was trying at best – but he trusted Mrs. Hudson and she already thought they were together anyway, so her input would undoubtedly be of value.

"Yes," he affirms slowly, his voice sounding irritatingly uncertain.

"Well, you didn't say much over the phone, but you did mention it had to do with John? Specifically you and John?" Her eyes glint knowingly, but she says nothing further.

He clears his throat and nods briskly. "Yes, yes it involves John and I," he shifts in his seat, "I've been conducting an experiment recently on relationships – of the platonic and romantic nature – and simply out of curiosity I've been simultaneously gathering data on where John and I stand in those regards. I deemed it prudent to ask you for your view on the subject because you know John and I the best, namely me, and I feel that you can provide very valuable insight,"

She raises a brow and suppresses an endeared smile. She takes her time mentally formulating a response as she unhurriedly pours two new cups of tea. She pushes Sherlock's across the table and sighs, folding her hands before her and settling into her response. "Dear, I'll start by simply saying that I've known you for years and I have never seen you look at anyone – man or woman – the way you look at John Watson. I know you don't have much experience in this area," he tightens his mouth and feels his face heat, "but it's quite clear that you lo –" the phone rings and its loud, shrill, incessant whine immediately cuts her off. She purses her lips and looks torn between the urge to continue the conversation and politely answer the phone. After another beat of hesitation her habits win out and she rises from her spot at the kitchen table, smoothing out her apron, and looks at him apologetically.

"Oh, dear, do excuse me for a moment, will you? In the meantime take a look at that mold growing on the underside of the counter. Terrible stuff, but I suppose you'll find something interesting to do with it," then she hurries off to the sitting room.

For the sake of busying himself, he does examine the mold on the counter, but it turns out to be an uninteresting shade of white that he quickly identifies as common household mildew. Frowning and already sensing the boredom and restlessness kicking in, he returns to his seat at the table. In Mrs. Hudson's small, peach-colored kitchen he feels both out of place and oddly comfortable. The former is mostly due to the considerably awkward task of folding his tall, lanky frame into her petite chairs and somehow bending his long legs at tricky angles in order to fit them beneath the table (Even with the extreme contortionism, his knees still brush its underside). However, other than that, he feels entirely welcome and at peace in her small, potpourri-scented flat, with its embroidered pillows, pastel color themes, and delicious baked goods perpetually cooling on the counter. He supposes he enjoys it because it provides the warm, somewhat motherly environment he lacked as a child.

Minutes trickle by and he continues to let his mind wander from topic to topic, steadfastly ignoring the very loud, persistent voice shouting about Mrs. Hudson's dramatically unfinished sentence. There are not many words beginning with "lo" that she could've intended to finish with, unless she'd planned to say "you loathe him", which he seriously doubts.

So the question is, does he "lo" John? (And no he won't say or even think the word because frankly it's a bit frightening; mostly because of how natural it feels)

In truth he doesn't know. Hell, he barely knows if he wants to kiss John or shake his hand. Friends or partners? Platonic or passionate?

Nothing makes sense.

Thankfully, he is saved from his own rapidly whirring thoughts when Mrs. Hudson reenters the kitchen looking extremely pleased. "Sherlock, you would not guess who that was!" She exclaims, and then laughs gaily when she sees his dead-pan expression in response (because yes, he's certain he actually can guess).

"Oh, dear, it was your brother – "

His face immediately crumples into a scowl and he turns his nose up. "Mycroft in the flesh or via telephone is never good news, Mrs. Hudson,"

She gushes on as if he hadn't spoken. "He had the most wonderful news! He's found a lovely murder case out in the country for you and John! It should take at least a few days to work through – yes dear, even with your genius – and he's even gone through the trouble of booking a nice hotel for the two of you while you're up there," she grins and laughs, shaking her head. "I really don't think the timing could have been more perfect,"

But Sherlock stops listening. His nostrils flare slightly and the tendons in his right hand flex, but his expression remains otherwise devoid of any outward irritation or anger. To the untrained eye he is calm, unperturbed. However, to the keen stare of Mrs. Hudson, it becomes immediately apparent that he is seething. She stops smiling and crinkles her brow in concern.

"Sherlock, dear, this is a good thing!" She insists, placing a soothing hand on his tense shoulder. "This will give you the opportunity to spend some alone time with John and figure out if you prefer him as a friend or…something greater. This is a wonderful opportunity, love; do not waste it simply to spite Mycroft,"

He sighs and drops his forehead into his large palms, wearily raking his fingers through his curls. "Mrs. Hudson my dilemma lies in John's feelings, not my own, though I will admit that they are equally as perplexing. I don't know if what I feel for him is typical among friends or a sign that I am looking for something more. How do I know? How can I possibly find out?" he asks, agitated. Mrs. Hudson eyes him sympathetically.

"Oh, Sherlock, just do what you'd normally do when testing a hypothesis," she pauses and smiles, "Experiment!"

* * *

**A/N: Part 2 will be posted (hopefully) within the next few weeks! As I said in the first A/N, this is my first Sherlock fanfic and any feedback you guys would be willing to give would be greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading, loves! **


	2. Cinnamon-Scented Realizations

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock _or_ John, unfortunately. **

**A/N: Every time I write from Sherlock's POV my search history ends up looking like:  
"synonyms for idiot"  
"time it takes to bleed out"  
"types of toxic molds"  
which earns me several strange looks from my family. **

**Sorry I couldn't have this up sooner, guys! But I've decided that this story is going to be at _least_ 4 chapters, instead of the two that I originally planned. Writing this has been so much fun, I hope you guys like reading it as much as I enjoyed creating it! :) **

* * *

Previously:

_"Mycroft had the most wonderful news! He's found a lovely murder case out in the country for you and John! It should take at least a few days to work through – yes dear, even with your genius – and he's even gone through the trouble of booking a nice hotel for the two of you while you're up there," Mrs. Hudson grins, shaking her head. "I really don't think the timing could have been more perfect,"_

_But Sherlock stops listening. His nostrils flare slightly and the tendons in his right hand flex, but his expression remains otherwise devoid of any outward irritation or anger. To the untrained eye he is calm, unperturbed. However, to the keen stare of Mrs. Hudson it becomes immediately apparent that he is seething. She stops smiling and crinkles her brow in concern._

_"Sherlock, dear, this is a good thing!" She insists, placing a soothing hand on his tense shoulder. "This will give you the opportunity to spend some alone time with John and figure out if you prefer him as a friend or…something greater. This is a wonderful opportunity, love; do not waste it simply to spite Mycroft,"_

_He sighs and drops his forehead into his large palms, wearily raking his fingers through his curls. "Mrs. Hudson my dilemma lies in John's feelings, not my own, though I will admit that they are equally as perplexing. I don't know if what I feel for him is typical among friends or a sign that I am looking for something more. How do I know? How can I possibly find out?" he asks, agitated. Mrs. Hudson eyes him sympathetically._

_"Oh, Sherlock, just do what you'd normally do when testing a hypothesis," she pauses and smiles, "Experiment!"_

* * *

Sherlock will not do Mycroft's damned legwork. He will not. He refuses_._

Mrs. Hudson insists that this case is a great chance to spend time with John, which is true, but she fails to understand that Sherlock can't just _do Mycroft favors_ like this. Sherlock's relationship with Mycroft functions only because there is a constant balance between doing what Mycroft tells him and_ not_ doing what Mycroft tells him. His mental tally system indicates that solving this case will put him too far into the "friendly brother" zone, which is a place he'd rather not be.

So, two sulky days after visiting Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock sits on the couch, crosses his arms, and tells John exactly why they aren't taking the case.

"Sherlock, don't you think you're being just a tad bit ridiculous?" John looks amused and not even half as serious as he ought to be. He sweeps a thick layer of dust from the top of the telly with a rag, mouth quirked into a grin. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you sound like a stubborn little boy," John stops dusting and moves over to tousle Sherlock's unruly curls. "With this hairstyle you even look like one,"

Sherlock glares in response, but John just keeps grinning, the corners of his eyes crinkling in delight. That is unacceptable, because Sherlock is not being_ cute_ or _endearing _or anything else that warrants a smile; he is being _serious._

"John. Mycroft is _insufferable._ If I do this, then before you know it, he will begin giving us_ all_ of his cases out of pure laziness and we'll be drowning in boring government assignments,"

"I highly doubt that'll happen, Sherlock. You're being a bit dramatic,"

Sherlock scoffs. "John, Mycroft could solve this case within twenty minutes if he cared to. He's only given this task to me to make my life more difficult or to perhaps free up time to devour more cake. Who knows; maybe both,"

Finished with the dusting, John walks in front of Sherlock, hands on his hips. "We are helping Mycroft, Sherlock. You don't have any cases right now, anyway; it'll be something interesting to do. Besides, I've put in enough hours at the clinic to get the next few days off with pay. At the very least I could use a vacation,"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and deadpans, "Oh really? Your ideal vacation involves a murder and copious amounts of time spent discussing the many ways one can be killed?"

"Sherlock, my _life_ involves murder and copious amounts of time spent discussing the ways one can be killed. Seems fitting that my vacation would be just as mad, yes?"

Sherlock stops glaring. His lips twitch. "I suppose so,"

"Alright then. It's settled: you and I are popping down to Kent to solve us a nice little murder,"

"Fine. But_ only_ if I can't manage to solve this case from Baker Street first,"

"Sherlock, you really think you'll be able to sol—actually, what am I saying: of course you think that," John rolls his eyes, amused. "Alright then, we'll do things your way. You said Mycroft wants you down by Thursday, so I suppose you have at least the next twenty-four hours to work it out,"

* * *

Sherlock could not solve the case in twenty-four hours.

Thus: He is sitting on an uncomfortably jostling train, up to his eyeballs in files and news clips, on his not-so-merry way to Kent.

Sherlock glares down at the crumpled train ticket in his fist with more scorn than the innocuous paper deserves, only tearing his gaze away to periodically glower out the window at Kent scenery.

Sherlock decides he hates Mycroft.

And not in that insincere, familial manner that is only out of begrudging fondness. No. He honestly despises his conniving, scheming, cake-devouring brother and all of his terrible ideas. Mycroft is lucky that he isn't here otherwise he'd be chucked out the window along with the useless files currently in Sherlock's lap. Only the unpleasant thought of physical labor prevents him from pouring bin by bin of paperwork straight out of the train and onto the tracks where they belong.

He furiously kneads at his temple, vainly endeavoring to ward off a headache. His phone vibrates with a text and he ceases his ministrations to check it.

_Enjoying the challenge, brother mine? -MH_

Damn it, Mycroft. Only his brother could have managed to find a case that truly stumped him; everyone else automatically assumed he could handle any possible situation (himself included) but of course Mycroft begged to differ.

The deceptively simple case Mycroft had so generously presented him took place in a small, serene town in Kent about three days previous. A man was found dead on a local beach – discovered by two lovers no less – bloated, naked, and bearing a strange black mark on his chest. At first glance the cause of death could easily be surmised as a gang strike due to the mark, and upon a second look, it was found that the man's tongue was missing and there was a large amounts of drugs in his system. This seemingly only supported the theory that he was killed by a crime organization, then marked, perhaps over a drug dispute. However, it was quickly discovered – by Sherlock of course, because the detectives involved were somehow even less competent than those at the Yard – that the mark was a tattoo the man had willingly received at least three or four months prior to his murder, (How they mistook an aged tattoo for a gang marking was above and beyond his comprehension) and all of the drugs found were deliberately ingested. The lack of tongue was slightly more ambiguous, but he'd be able to piece it together once he got to see the corpse with his own eyes.

This of course rendered nearly every file on the case useless. Sherlock had spent the previous night and subsequent morning at Baker Street, shuffling through the paperwork and attempting to correct each error and inconsistency, but once it became clear that it would take longer than the few hours he was willing to sacrifice, he tossed the bin of files aside and fell into a sulk.

"Tea?" John had asked, standing before him with two mugs.

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the ceiling to glance at John, making a vaguely affirmative gesture with his hands. "Yes but it will have to be to-go," he said, resigned. Unfortunately he'd have to take a look at the evidence in person, because the existing records were completely worthless. That meant going all the bloody way to Kent. Despite his best efforts it would seem that he was doing everything Mycroft had planned; the icing on the cake would be when he and John arrived and were forced to use the hotel Mycroft already booked for their lodgings. Unless, of course, they rebelled against his plans by sleeping on the ground or in some shoddy motel, though Sherlock was not particularly fond of either alternative.

"To-go? I thought you said you could, and I quote, 'solve Mycroft's stupid case from the sofa'?"

"Yes, John. I did say that. However that was before I realized how utterly thick the 'detectives' working on this case were. Now it appears we will have to go there and collect data for ourselves," he sighed long-sufferingly and plucked his scarf from the arm of the chair. "Grab your coat, will you?"

John looked at him strangely, "I'll be fine, Sherlock, I don't think I need—"

Sherlock waved him off, impatiently. "Yes, John, you do. Without it you'll get ill in this weather, and we certainly can't have that,"

John gave him that look again, and Sherlock mentally scolded himself for acting like some ridiculous mothering figure. If John wanted to be careless and catch a cold_, fine._

But then that hypothetical cold turned into pneumonia, which then led to respiratory failure, Sepsis, Emphysema, lung abscesses, and ended with John slowly dying in a hospital bed. Sherlock's heart leaped into his throat and nearly choked him. Without a second thought he swiped John's neglected jacket from its perch on the chair and practically forced John into it.

"Sherlock! I'm not a child—why are you putting my jacket—hey! Bloody calm down, will you?" John managed to tear away from Sherlock's insistent grip just as he was pulling the right sleeve on. John indignantly adjusted the rumpled collar of his jacket and looked at Sherlock as if he were mad.

Inwardly pleased, but still attempting to salvage what remained of his pride, Sherlock cleared his throat and casually brushed down the lapel of his own coat. "Let's go shall we?"

John cast him a wary glance, perhaps wondering if Sherlock planned to man-handle him again, before replying, "Fine, yes. Let's get going, the train will be leaving soon."

Which brings Sherlock to the present, wherein a bin full of useless records are jostling on his lap, Mycroft is sending smug texts, and his brilliant, magnificent mind continues hitting dead-ends. He knows this is not his fault; he has nearly no reliable evidence to work with, so whatever conclusions he does manage to draw end up contradicting themselves as soon as he dredges up another misfiled paper or out-of-focus photograph.

It is absolutely _maddening._

To make matters worse, he can't even distract himself by admiring, speaking with, or simply staring at John. Because although John is inches away in the next seat, he's too busy texting his woman-of-the-week to do much else but giggle at his mobile and punch flirtations into his keyboard, let alone give Sherlock some much needed attention. Annoyed, tired, and desperately wishing the train would stop already, Sherlock leans his forehead against the window and stares unseeingly at passing objects. Once John's texting conversation turns into an actual conversation, he has to clench both his jaw and fists to resist plucking the phone from John's hand and flinging it from the window.

"Yes, Laura, I did receive the picture; you look dashing in that dress," John says into his mobile, which is nearly mashed into the side of his head in eagerness. He grins at her reply. "Really, now? Well, I'd hardly call myself _debonair_, but if you say so…"

Sherlock groans. To revise his earlier thought: this is not just maddening, this is _agony._ His eyes fall to John's jumper, which is dark blue and soft-looking. Experimentally, he pokes John's shoulder. One touch quickly becomes two, and before he knows it he is pressing his index finger into the curve of John's shoulder to the beat of several different symphonies, most of his own creation.

_Poke poke poke—poke poke—poke poke poke—poke._

"Yes, I'd love to—" John stops abruptly, presses the phone into his shoulder, and hisses at Sherlock, "Will you stop bloody jabbing me in the arm?"

Unperturbed, Sherlock continues poking John, albeit at a slower pace. "John, I'm bored. Terribly bored. Unfathomably bored. I demand that you end that foolish call immediately,"

John rolls his eyes and raises the phone back to his ear. "Yes, Laura, I'm back. As you were saying?" He continues speaking with her, and when Sherlock resumes his pestering, John reaches up and stills his hand with his own. He mouths 'stop' and Sherlock does, but John doesn't release his hand. Sherlock stares at their joined hands, then back up at John questioningly. John moves the phone away from his ear once again to whisper, "I don't trust that you aren't going to start up again, so I'm not letting go until you promise to stop for good,"

Hm. Well. John is currently holding his hand, and if promising not to bother him will end this wonderful contact, then of course he isn't going to promise anything.

"And if you don't promise I'll just move across the aisle," he adds, flicking his gaze to the empty seat a few feet away.

Defeated, Sherlock slumps in his seat and murmurs a sullen "I promise". John releases him and returns to his call. Sherlock's right hand now feels unpleasantly cold.

Minutes pass unhurriedly, and after what feels like ten lifetimes, he hears John say, much to his relief, "Oh, you have to go? Alright, then. I'll talk to you another time, Laura,"

"That took long enough," Sherlock breathes, posture straightening and eyes brightening immediately. _Excellent._ Now he has John all to himself. With no preamble, he plucks one of the more coherent documents from the bin and begins questioning John.

"John, in your medical opinion, would you say this man's tongue was sawed off – and if that's the case, I'm guessing it would have been done with some kind of generic Swiss-army knife – or bitten off, mid-seizure, due to an overdose of tricyclic antidepressants?"

"Sherlock—"

"And then of course, there is the very complex cluster of scar tissue bunched up near the crease of his knee - could be a bullet wound, but the shape says knife – and I'm not quite sure if it somehow occurred because of his occupation - a crossing guard, according this this file – or possibly what he did in his free time, which is, in my opinion, far more likely considering how generally uneventful the job of directing people across the street is,"

"Sherlock," John cuts in, more sharply this time.

Sherlock, just about to open his mouth and continue, pauses. Reluctantly he presses his lips shut and waits for John to speak. (Though, whatever it is _surely_ could have waited until Sherlock shared that bit about the fingernails)

"Yes?"

"First of all, take a breath. You're speaking at a million miles an hour. In, out," John demonstrates, taking exaggerated inhalations and exhalations of air. Sherlock stares at him, trying, if anything, to breathe even less calmly than before out of pure pettiness. He doesn't need John to show him how to_ breath_e for Christ's sake, valuable time is being wasted!

"Yes, John, I'm aware of how to use my lungs,"

"Excellent. Now, I am absolutely knackered from the late shift I took last night, so I'm going to take a quick nap. Wake me up when we're in Kent, alright? Shouldn't be more than twenty minutes,"

"Wha—John, how can you possibly _sleep_ at a time like this? Those idiots mucked up the entire case, but there are still a few things we can piece together from the minimal amount of evidence that we have available, and I really do require your medical opinion on—"

"Wake me up in Kent," John repeats firmly. Then he closes his eyes, sinks down in his seat, and folds his hands on his abdomen. Within minutes he is fast asleep.

Sherlock glares out the window in a silent pout, his arms folded tightly, chin tucked into his chest. _Why must John waste valuable time talking to imbeciles and bloody napping? Wouldn't he rather talk to me about this case? Let's not forget that it's the two of US that are on this damned trip anyway, not him and Laura! Why doesn't he—_

Sherlock's mental ranting is cut short when John murmurs something in his sleep and leans into him. The train jostles and John's head ends up tucked into Sherlock's shoulder, his soft, cinnamon-scented hair brushing the underside of Sherlock's chin. Sherlock blinks, heat rushing to his face.

_Okay. That feels…good. Not terribly bad. Decent._

_Mm._

The twenty minutes that previously seemed to stretch on into eternity now pass at an alarming rate; before he has time to fully appreciate their position the train is pulling into the station and John is blinking himself awake.

"Mm, sorry about that," John mumbles, lifting his head from the scratchy wool of Sherlock's coat. "Did I bother you?"

Sherlock swallows and pointedly looks away. "No,"

After exiting the train, Sherlock strides ahead of John so they are not in close proximity. He needs some space; just a bit of time to allow the ridiculous pink splotches on his cheeks to cool back into smooth porcelain. He needs his heart to bloody calm down, too.

"Jesus, Sherlock, where's the fire? Would you bloody slow down?"

However, the separation ends up in vain because despite their distance Sherlock can't stop smelling cinnamon for the entire walk to the hotel.

* * *

As Sherlock stands alongside John in the hotel parking lot and gazes up at the towering, cream-colored building netted with ivy and bright purple bougainvillea, his only thought is _Damn it, Mycroft_.

Because _of course_ a simple hotel was not an option for Mycroft, he just_ had_ to get them reservations at a five star resort swarmed with tan, shiny-haired people and their dazzling, overpriced cars. Sherlock can practically hear the smooth jazz that will play in the smartly-decorated lobby, the low buzz of refined chatter from rich mouths; the gentle whoosh of expensive fabric brushing against equally exorbitant furniture.

He knows for a fact there will be gourmet chocolate-covered mints beneath their pillows and designer shampoo in their showers.

"John, we are not going in there,"

John, who'd been staring at the building in faint distaste, tears his eyes away to meet Sherlock's. "Why, what don't you like about it?"

Sherlock glares at the hotel as if it has personally offended him. "If Mycroft was a building, this would be it. Need I say more?"

"Ah. No, I suppose not," They turn around and begin their walk from the parking lot. John tucks his hands into his pockets. "Just as well, though. I can't stand uppity places like this,"

Without missing a bit, Sherlock replies, "Yes, I know. It makes you uncomfortable. You grew up in a very frugal household and were always forced to live life as inexpensively as possible. Then you joined the army and money was more or less irrelevant. When you moved back to London you lived in a very small flat for a low monthly fee because you do not see the point in frivolous decorations or material items. I am of course referring to the flat that preceded 221b, though even our present arrangement is economically sensible as you split the rent with me. You are quite practical. In fact, it's one of your best characteristics, John,"

"Well…thanks. But what about you? You grew up in this kind of lifestyle, so why did the thought of staying in that hotel bother you so much?"

"I already answered that,"

John furrows his brow. "How? That's the first time I've asked the question,"

"Because, as I said moments ago, it would make you uncomfortable," Sherlock steals a glance at John, then looks away, embarrassed. "I…I don't want you to be uncomfortable,"

"Oh." John raises his eyebrows in surprise, before a smile pulls up the corners of his lips. "You know, Sherlock, that's actually very thoughtful of you,"

Sherlock can already feel heat creeping up from his collar_._

_Stop that._ _Stop smiling at me like that - all endearing and playful - right this instance, John. STOP._

"Er—I suppose," is Sherlock's grumbled reply. He pulls up his collar and ducks his head, attempting to subtly hide the spreading blush.

"No, really, it's quite kind," John insists, now grinning ear to ear. His eyes sparkle like a schoolboy's; he looks like he is planning on doing something either juvenile or silly or all of the above. Sherlock pointedly does not look at John's face because that happy expression alone will be enough to melt away all of his reservations as well as his carefully preserved self-control.

"Whatever, John. It's _nothing," _he complains.

But John, of course, is undeterred. He moves closer to Sherlock as they walk, so that there is not an inch of space between their shoulders. "Despite those razor-sharp cheekbones and equally lethal wit, you really can be nice when you want to," John teases. Then, shockingly, he throws a quick arm around Sherlock's waist and squeezes lightly in a sort of half-hug. Before it even occurs to Sherlock to attempt to reciprocate, or at least savor the sensation of John's fingertips pressing into his hip, John's arm is gone and his deliciously warm hands are tucked innocently back into his coat pockets.

Sherlock is still reeling long after the fact, but John appears to have found nothing unusual about what he did, because moments later he casually asks, "So which hotel should we stay in, then?" As if that hug was no more than a typical occurrence that hardly required subsequent thought.

Sherlock, on the other hand, is quite flustered. His mind is clouded with frantic lines of data – _warm fingertips, light pressure, arm wrapped 'round my waist, cinnamon, laughter, playful smile _– and a mishmash of emotions that he is neither inclined nor able to figure out. Why the hell does he feel nervous, happy, scared, _and _pleased all at once? It's all just so _unnecessary. _Whoever dares to say that human emotions aren't complicated deserves a solid kick in the rear.

"There's a place just a few minutes from here I b-believe," Sherlock deliberately clears his throat and tries to ignore the fact that he just stuttered. John cocks an eyebrow but decides to let it go.

"Do you think it'll have available rooms?"

Sherlock scans the area. Decent weather today means that people of all kinds will head straight to the park or a lake or somewhere else scenic, so there will be many vacancies because no one wants to be holed up in a room – especially one that is not theirs – when there is nice weather outside. However, there appears to be some kind of event happening near the hotel – as can be seen by the cars lining the sidewalks and the reoccurring logos on ten different peoples' shirts – so that significantly affects the amount of available area. It's a small event, though, an annual town event perhaps, judging by the quality of the logo and the general appearance of the decorations, so it will not be big enough to book the entire hotel. Ah, but wait! People holding hands, red and pink color scheme…this is a couple's event, a dating event perhaps, not a town festival, so only the double bedded rooms will be taken. That leaves the single rooms and the family sized rooms open.

"Yes, I believe so,"

...

The hotel's interior is pleasant and unassuming, a far cry from the palatial resort Mycroft booked for them. While John handles the boring task of checking in, Sherlock pulls out his phone to send a text.

_Your taste is ridiculous. Do not feel inclined to choose lodgings on my behalf in the future, Mycroft. –SH _

He smirks to himself. Seconds later, his mobile beeps.

_Well, brother, your taste is nonexistent, which I rather think is worse than 'ridiculous'. What exactly displeased you? Was it not satisfactory to your John? –MH_

Sherlock bristles at that. He can practically _see_ the falsely innocent smile wrapped around '_your John'_. Sodding Mycroft. But as much as it pains him to admit, Mycroft is correct, and unfortunately there is no way to say he is wrong without outright lying, so Sherlock decides against replying. Annoyed, he snaps his mobile shut and joins John at the front desk.

"Well, 'fraid there's only a single room left, lads," the concierge explains, apologetically. "I 'spose you could take a family-suite, but that's a hundred-something extra and comes with three beds,"

John glances at Sherlock, "The single room is fine, right?"

It _is_ illogical to get a room with three beds when there are only two people, so Sherlock agrees. "Yes, that's fine."

"Alright, here's the key. Have a good one, lads,"

...

After some quick unpacking and a half-hearted attempt at lunch – soggy sandwich for John, hot tea for Sherlock – the two take a cab to the address Mycroft attached to one of the evidence files. At the moment, they sit side by side in the backseat of a cab on their way to the police department, Sherlock impatiently shaking his leg and staring out the window while John attempts to lay out what he calls "ground rules".

"First of all, I want you to at least_ try_ to keep the biting condescension to a minimum,"

"Impossible," Sherlock dismisses, not even bothering to tear his gaze from the window.

"Secondly, I'd like you to treat them with patience. They aren't geniuses like you, remember,"

To which he flatly replies: "No."

John doesn't seem even slightly upset though, because he clearly didn't expect Sherlock to listen to him at all. He is saying these things because as the moral compass of the pair he is obligated to at least _attempt_ to guide Sherlock in the right direction, even though nine times out of ten it will be in vain.

"And last but not least, you should smile. Shake their hand in greeting. Converse about the weather," Ah, and there is that good old dry sarcasm. John does an impressive job of keeping a straight face.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but the quirk of his mouth undeniably proves his amusement. "Yes, yes, I'll definitely do that, John,"

John's shoulder shake in silent laughter as he turns his body to face the window. "Much appreciated."

* * *

The body is laid out on a table, pale, cold, bloated, and nearly past the stage in which usable data can be gleaned. Sherlock fancies himself lucky for showing up when he had, because even a few extra hours might've rendered this entire corpse useless.

Sherlock lifts the man's right eyelid and waits for John to obligatorily shine his small torch inside. The veins are swollen, some burst, and the broken capillaries seep pink and red to the rest of the sclera. Additionally, the small pupil of his eye is nearly swallowed by the colorless iris surrounding it. Clearly drugs-related, then.

Detective Richards, an irritable, twitchy-mustached man with pride far too large for his five-foot-three frame, steps forward and clears his throat. "Are you just about done staring at that man's eyes? He isn't gonna blink any time soon,"

Sherlock snaps the torch off and glares down at the man. He doesn't bother dignifying such a stupid remark with a response.

Annoyed at being ignored, the Detective continues, "We surmise that this man was drugged out of his wits and marked by a gang, most probably over a drug dispute that ended badly. Open and shut case, Mr. Holmes," his beady eyes narrow in distaste, "So I'm not exactly sure why you've been called down here,"

"Yes, judging by the inconsistent mess you call "evidence", I can see you are not _'exactly sure'_ about a lot of things, Detective. And you'd like to know why I am here? Well, since you are also quite poor at arriving at conclusions, I shall save you some time and precious brain power by explaining that you lot are entirely_ wrong_ and I was called in to do something _right,"_

"_Excuse me_? Listen,_ freak_, I don't see how you can call yourself my superior when _I_ am the one with the badge and _you_ are the one with the useless lackey and nonexistent credentials,"

Sherlock puts the torch down beside the man's head and whirls around to face the snarling detective. "Do _not _speak of my colleague like that, Richards. And I _am_ your superior. Paper documents and shiny badges mean virtually nothing when there is a dead body on a slab and you are too _thunderously_ idiotic to realize how he died and too _incredibly _stupid to care,"

By now, the rest of the officers have backed up to leave the two in the center of the room. They circle each other like snarling dogs preparing to strike. "_Do not speak to me like that in my office, Mr. Holmes! _And if you call me stupid one more time…," he trails off, face red with anger, "And we have the bloody case solved already, so—"

"Oh? You think this was a gang-related crime, do you? So then are we going to completely ignore the four-point-five grams of antidepressants and two grams of cocaine that were found in his system? Oh, that's right, you didn't bloody_ know_ there were self-consumed drugs in his system, did you? Because although your reports vaguely mention drugs, you all drew the conclusion that they were some form of extremely potent benzodiazepines used to sedate him, when in reality all of the drugs found in this man's system were deliberately ingested,"

"Sherlock—"

"Not now, John, I'm not nearly finished. I've yet to even touch upon the ridiculous 'gang marking' nonsense this lot made up about the _fully consented_ tattoos on his chest,"

The detective glowers. "Listen, Mr. fancy-London-crime solver, we do not need any of your help down here, in fact I'm not quite sure how you even heard about this case. We have everything handled so I'd appreciate it if you took your snarky comments and smart arse back to where you came from, thank you very goddamn much,"

Sherlock laughs, but it sounds more like a cruel bark of amazement than anything. "And just when I truly believed your stupidity had reached maximum levels,"

"Call me stupid _one more time_, Mr. Holmes…"

"Excuse me, Detective, but I believe you've made that unfinished threat at least several times today, so either you're being extremely repetitive or you simply cannot count past _one,"_

The man audibly growls and clenches his fists at his sides, fuming in silent anger.

From across the room, Sherlock watches John purse his lips and glance around the tense group. Since his face is extremely expressive, Sherlock can read his thoughts like a book_: okay things are getting a bit strained here, we should probably give them a bit of time to cool off even though they are most certainly being idiots. It will probably be in our best interest if the detectives working on this case don't hate our guts_. _Time to take Sherlock for a little 'talk' to give them a break._

As predicted, John sighs and takes Sherlock by the crook of his arm, "Come with me for a mo', yes?" But John doesn't wait for a response, because he's already dragging Sherlock into an empty office by the time it even occurs to Sherlock that he should answer.

Sherlock is not entirely certain how John can maintain so calm in the presence of these imbeciles, because it has taken _every ounce_ of Sherlock's patience to refrain from tearing out fist after fist of his own hair. The evidence and subsequent conclusions one ought to draw are _right bloody there_, yet they all insist that the fantastical story Detective Richards has cooked up is the most likely one.

John more or less shoves him inside, then turns to close the door. He leans against the wall and chuckles tiredly. He runs a hand down his face.

"John—"

"I know: they're idiots. I'm no consulting detective myself and even _I_ can see the great inconsistencies in this case,"

"That's because you are clever, John. They quite plainly are not,"

"Okay, but even though I agree with you that does not mean I agree with your methods of handling the situation," he pauses, rolls his eyes, "I know that indignant look on your face, Sherlock: save your breath, I know you'll say that you will 'do whatever you please' or something to that extent. I'm only saying this because we are going to get nowhere with this daft lot if you continue snapping at them; they aren't the Yard, they will not just stand there and silently take it,"

"But it's what I _do_, John. I snap. I seethe. I hiss. It isn't my fault that they are too feeble-minded to look past their feelings of inferiority and mediocrity to view the facts clearly,"

"I know, it's just—"

There is a brief pounding at the door, before it swings open and Detective Richards, flanked by two of his officers, enter. He peers at the two of them, mustache twitching in anger. "Sorry, boys, hate to have interrupted your little _date_, but could we kindly get back to the damned case? Or, better yet, arrange your plans to return home?"

John glares. "We are in the middle of a discussion, detective, it would be lovely if you permitted us a bit of privacy,"

"Oh, a bit of privacy? I'm sorry, Mr. Walton, it didn't occur to me that we were hosting a social event—here I thought this was an actual case in an actual police station! Silly me!" Spittle flies from his mouth. "When I was told two professionals were coming down to look into our case, I didn't realize one would require intermittent breaks to compose his basket case of a partner," he snarls over John's shoulder, eyes fixed angrily on Sherlock. "Do try to keep the freak on a damned leash, will you, Mr. Walton?"

John, who'd previously looked only annoyed, is now shaking with suppressed fury. He clenches his steady hands into fists and stares at the Detective as if deciding where to land his first punch. His eyes linger on the man's face and Sherlock can already see thirty seconds into the future wherein Detective Richards will have a broken nose and John's knuckles will be covered with his blood. It's a bit early in the case for hospital bills, especially ones that aren't even their own.

As Sherlock watches John grow progressively angrier, he oddly finds himself calming down. It's as if an invisible balance is evening their collective emotions out, so that neither one of them is too angry or too relaxed. Sherlock clears his throat and steps in front of John, both out protectiveness and for the sake of stopping John from charging at the idiot before them. In one flat stream of degradation Sherlock says:

"You will address him as Dr. Watson, not Mr. Watson, or John, and least of all _Mr. Walton_, you imbecile. Though I'm well aware the power to correctly recall names exceeds your mental abilities, _do _attempt to properly title the kinder half of the pair that is currently assisting you and your hopeless department with this case, because I can guarantee winning me over will not be so easy. Or_ possible_, at this point."

The detective stares back, his face as red as the ketchup stain on his tie, lips moving wordlessly beneath his mustache. "How—don't—dare you—in my office—you,"

Sherlock flicks his collar upwards and gathers his scarf from John. "Come now, John," he says, cheerily. "Let's go. It'll be about twenty minutes before he is able to coherently form a sentence, so we might as well do something interesting in the meantime,"

John stops clenching his fists and nods, his features smoothing over into mock pleasantness. "Yes, grand idea. It was lovely speaking to you, detective, but we're obviously not going to accomplish much today, so if you decide that you'd like to listen to Sherlock tomorrow, please do not hesitate to call us up. With an adequate apology prepared, of course. Until then," John offers him a final, false smile before storming out the door with Sherlock following behind.

"I deeply dislike that man," John snaps as they walk out of the building, in a tone that suggests he more than just _dislikes _him. _Despise _is probably more accurate.

"Yes, I'm not particularly fond, either," Sherlock tucks his hands into his pockets and ducks his head. "He called you _Mr. Walton_ for christ's sake. I daresay Anderson would make for better company,"

John chuckles. "That's quite the statement. Are you sure you'd like to insult him to such an extreme extent?"

Sherlock huffs out a laugh in response, shaking his head. "Unfortunately, yes. I never thought it possible, but I have successfully found a man even more unpleasant than Phillip Anderson,"

The weather in Kent is fairly nice - as John would say, because Sherlock doesn't care about things like _weather _\- now that the harsh wind has simmered down to a cool breeze and the solid roof of clouds are starting to allow a bit of greyish sunlight to break through. The air smells crisp with a faint hint of coffee from the shop a few streets down.

They walk down the sidewalk in the direction of their hotel, chins tucked in the layers of scarfs looping their necks, gloved fingers shoved into pockets.

"Do you think he'll call us back?" John asks in the lobby, room key moving nervously from one hand to the other. John appears to think he is at fault; he thinks that if they lose this case it is because of him, not Sherlock.

Strange.

"Yes, yes, of course. Tomorrow morning at the earliest and tomorrow night at the latest; however long it takes for his pride to simmer down. Mycroft wants this dealt with and dealt with it shall be. One ridiculous man with a bloody gopher on his upper lip is not going to stand in the way,"

"A gopher?" John's eyes twinkle with mirth. "Brilliant description, though I thought it looked more like a weasel the way it was jumping about on his face,"

Sherlock outright laughs at that, a long deep rumble of joy that seems to go on for ages. Before he knows it, John has joined him and they're leaning against the wall of the corridor, breathless and giggling, just like their first night together when they chased after the cab.

...

"John, you are not sleeping on the floor," Sherlock states, already peeling back the duvet and climbing in as if his word is final and the problem has been solved.

"Sherlock, I really don't mind it, I've slept on the floor before,"

Sherlock slides into the left side of the bed and wiggles his toes underneath the tightly tucked-in sheets. "Good for you. I've eaten a red beetle before, but that doesn't mean I'm going to do so for breakfast. There. Now that we've both shared pointless experiences that have no bearing in the present, you can stop being foolish and _get into bed,"_

John still looks doubtful. "Sherlock…"

He huffs and dramatically throws himself on his back to glare at the ceiling. "Really, John? Do you really care about what people think_ that_ much? There are no hidden cameras in here, no one's waiting behind the door to pop out and snap a picture, the world will continue in its endless revolutions whether you get into this bed or not. Frankly, if your heterosexuality is still in question despite the masses of women you date, then whoever you are attempting to convince is not worth it," Sherlock turns his back to John to face the wall, an unfamiliar ache settling somewhere behind his rib cage.

And yes, maybe it hurts just a little that John is so repulsed by the idea of sharing a bed that he is willing to sleep on the floor, but _whatever. _Sherlock doesn't care.

Sherlock can't see his face, but when John speaks, he sounds…confused. Surprised, too. "Wait, you think I don't want to share a bed because people will think I'm gay?" He laughs softly, as if to say _'oh you silly, silly man',_ "Jesus, Sherlock, who cares about that? As you've said: people do little else other than talk, so there's no use in worrying over it. No, I was just a bit reluctant because you have a tendency to sprawl yourself across the entire mattress, and I wasn't sure if sharing a bed would be uncomfortable for you. I mean, being confined to a smaller space, and all,"

Sherlock blinks. John was going to sleep on the floor because he thought _Sherlock_ would prefer that? The cold feeling quickly morphs into a steady burn, coloring him red with flush all the way from his neck to the tips of his cheekbones. He turns to face John.

"I don't mind,"

"Okay, I'll get in after I brush my teeth. One mo'" John turns and pads into the small bathroom, blue toothbrush in tow.

Sherlock lays on his back and attempts to sort the events of the day – a sleeping John on his shoulder, the hug, cinnamon, the idiotic detective, laughing in the hallways, a smorgasbord of warm smiles and casual touches - and finds a low thrum of anticipation vibrating in his bones. He can't focus. There are bees under his skin, there must be, because his body is practically buzzing with both nausea and excitement at the same time. It's the same spike of adrenaline that usually accompanies a particularly dangerous case.

Reality: He is going to sleep beside John.

Yes, it's platonic – at least to John – but Sherlock has a feeling that somehow this is going to bring change. They are reaching a pinnacle here, of what he isn't sure, but its importance is undeniable.

John exits the bathroom in a cotton t-shirt that smells like laundry detergent and grey sweatpants that Sherlock amusedly notes once belonged to Harry. He stretches his arms over his head, ambles over to the bed, peels back the covers and climbs in as if this is just part of their typical routine. He shifts around for a bit – they are now precisely six inches apart – before reaching over to turn off the lamp light, shrouding the room in darkness.

Minutes later, when John clears his throat to speak, Sherlock expects him to say something akin to 'goodnight' and have that be the end of it, but instead he says, "If you hadn't ushered us out of that police station when you had, I swear I would have chinned Detective Richards,"

Sherlock smiles at the dark ceiling. "Yes, I know," he pauses, "But why?"

John scoffs and adjusts himself so that he is on his side, facing Sherlock. Sherlock listens to the sheets rustle and waits for John's response. "Because he was a git, that's why,"

"We've met people just as unpleasant as him before and you've never tried to punch them. What specifically did he do that made you so angry?"

"He called you a freak!" John sputters, as if that answer is obvious. "Do you not remember?"

Sherlock is confused. "Yes, of course I recall. Photographic memory. But I don't see why that would prompt you to hit him,"

There is a beat of surprised silence, then John laughs softly; not because Sherlock's confusion is humorous, but because John seems to find it…endearing. Again, he appears to consider the answer obvious. "Sherlock. You're my best friend; _of course_ I get angry when people insult you to your face like that. I hate when Donovan does it too, but I can't exactly throw a punch at her, can I? It's just a quirk of mine I suppose; overprotectiveness. I'm sorry if it bothers you,"

John was protecting him. Sherlock is John's _best friend._

Oh.

Well, isn't that an interesting feeling. Warmth pools in Sherlock's chest and spreads from his quickly-beating heart to the tips of his curled toes.

"N-no, I don't mind. No need to apologize," he feels another question bubbling up in his throat, but it sounds so needy that he initially resists voicing it. However, since there is something especially liberating about the dark, he finds himself quietly confirming, "I'm your best friend?"

Because John did not mean that, he _couldn't have._ Sherlock has never had a friend, let alone a _best friend_. Even in his wildest dreams he never imagined he'd meet someone like John, who is loved by all and could easily have a number of people in his life, but for some reason chooses _Sherlock,_ the ill-mannered, socially-unaware consulting detective_. _

_Why?_

John is by far the most confusing puzzle he's ever encountered.

John doesn't seem to realize how perplexing the idea is for Sherlock. "Of course you are, Sherlock," he answers easily. No thought required. Stated like a well-known fact. "How could you be anything less? You're—" John yawns, "fantastic."

"You're fantastic too," Sherlock replies, without thinking. The words come out sounding rushed and childish in their eagerness. Sherlock's face goes ruddy and he is grateful for the blanket of darkness.

"Glad it's a mutual thought, then," Faint light from the moon glints off of John's teeth as he grins. "Goodnight, Sherlock," John says around another yawn. He sighs contently and tugs the sheet around his shoulders. "May we both have _fantastic_ dreams."

...

When Sherlock wakes up, the first thing he notices is the overwhelming warmth surrounding him. How unfamiliar. At home he cocoons himself in a thin silk sheet and sleeps beneath a drafty open window, so he is accustomed to waking up cold. At the moment however, he is intertwined quite intricately with something that is warm and cinnamon/laundry soap-scented, which is both a new and entirely pleasing start to his day. His eyes are sticky with sleep so he doesn't bother trying to open them.

This feels nice. The sun is shining through a window to the left, warming the duvet, the side of Sherlock's face, and whatever solid mass he is burrowed into. He nuzzles his face further into the warmth and sighs. This is lovely, isn't it? This is pleasant. This is—

This is John's chest.

Suddenly alert, Sherlock stiffens and attempts to catalogue their exact position without moving a muscle, in fear of waking John. Okay, so his cheek is pressed somewhere along John's chest, yes that's John's chin on top of his head, and his right arm is slung across John's abdomen. Now for the legs…ah, so his right leg is curled over John's straightened legs, and his left leg is bent and pressed next to his right leg. What's that warm spot on his shoulder blades? Oh: it's John's hand. Okay. Splayed fingers, slight pressure.

This is interesting.

It appears that John - consciously or subconsciously, Sherlock would rather not analyze which at the moment – has allowed Sherlock to curl around him like a monkey in their sleep.

And, yes, as ineloquent as that sounds, that is really the only thing Sherlock can liken himself to: a monkey. Because he is practically_ clinging _to John at the moment. Not that he is complaining, or anything.

Positions figured out, Sherlock now must analyze the situation itself. First: Sherlock never sleeps for more than three hours a night unless some kind of heavy sedative is involved, yet according to the room's clock, he has just slept for _nine straight hours_. Second: this is the most comfortable Sherlock has ever felt in his entire life, dreamy cocaine highs and all. Third: he really did not think he'd be this invested in – egad, even though this feels wonderful, saying the word is painful – _cuddling. _Yet he is._ Clearly._

It's strange, but this somehow feels natural. If Sherlock can temporarily ignore the shock and heart-stopping joy he is feeling at this new experience, he can almost imagine himself waking up like this on a regular basis. And wouldn't that be smashing?

Sherlock has never before understood why it is so great to wake up next to someone you love, but now that he has done so himself, he empathizes completely.

Wait. He's done so himself? Love. John. This. _What?_

Sherlock's eyes widen and his heart nearly stutters to a halt.

And so, it is on a sunny morning in Kent, wrapped around the man in question, that Sherlock Holmes realizes that he is indeed in love with John Watson.

_Bugger._

* * *

**_A/N: So, _what did you think? Love it, hate it? All comments and criticisms are welcomed with open arms and chocolate chip cookies.:) Thank you so much for reading, loves! The next update will come sooner, because I already have most of chapter three already written out. **

**Until next time, darlings! **


	3. Things Get Rather Complicated

**A/N: Hey guys! So, as I was writing this I realized I have a tendency to lean towards certain Johnlock tropes: Protective!John and Protective!Sherlock, Pining!Sherlock , John running his fingers through Sherlock's hair (idk, this may be because Benedict just has such lovely hair that I assume anyone would run their fingers through it if given the chance) and Meddling/Protective Older Brother!Mycroft. Also, the Mycroft-diet-jokes are my favorite thing ever.**

**ANYWAY: I am having so much fun writing this story and I just wanted to thank all of you guys that have commented or favorited this, because it means more than you know. This was one of my favorite chapters to write, I hope you guys like it! Enjoy~**

* * *

_I'm in love with John. _

For the span of several decades, Sherlock just lays there, frozen, staring unseeingly at the wall. A sickening combination of shock and denial twist inside his chest and if he does not leave _right this second_ and get some fresh, ice-cold, nearly hypothermic air he is very well going to vomit all over the both of them, which would be a decidedly bad way to start a morning. Sherlock carefully extricates himself from the tangle of limbs, rolling from the bed and onto the floor with the harried gracelessness of a man in panic. His mind immediately attempts to review the realization that just occurred several feet to his right, but he refuses to entertain it until he is a safe distance from this bed, this hotel, and most importantly, John.

In fact, he refuses to even look at John's mellow, sleeping form. He refuses to pay attention to the lovely peaceful expression he is wearing. He shows no interest in the way John looks so young right now, innocent and pliant and utterly content.

No, Sherlock doesn't care one bit about any of that.

He feels like he needs a shower first, though. Perhaps some nice, freezing jets of water will clear his mind and allow his heart to calm the bloody hell down. Yes, that's what he needs. A shower.

Without a second thought, he sweeps into the bathroom and slams the door shut. Belatedly, he wonders if he should've been quieter so as not to wake John, but then brushes it off because even if he _has_ woken him, John hardly has the right to complain since it isn't _John _that is currently having a crisis in a hotel bathroom.

He discovers rather quickly that he is far too tall for the shower head. The jet of water only hits his collarbones, so in order to wet his hair and face he is forced to bend his knees and hunch underneath the spray like some awkward, gangly giant. His annoyance is only furthered when he is met with the repulsive, silicon-filled shampoo the hotel has made available. To make matters worse, there is only enough gel to wash about two-thirds of his hair. Irritated beyond belief, Sherlock empties the bottle's entire contents over his wet, curly head, resigning himself to the terrible itch that'll undoubtedly plague him later. _Stupid, cheap, silicon shampoo._

He runs his fingers through his wet hair and decides that this is as good a time as any to confront the jarring—_genuine_—thought that occurred to him whilst curled around John. He takes a deep breath. He needs to try and say it out loud, that'll make it real. That way he'll know for sure if he actually meant it or if it was just an in-the-moment fancy.

He screws his eyes shut, clenches both fists, and grits out, "I am in love with John Hamish Watson,"

He waits for a moment with bated breath, but when the universe remains intact and the entire population does not simultaneously keel over in shock, he hesitantly cracks one eye open. He is irrationally surprised to find that virtually nothing has changed. He feels exactly the same as he did yesterday and the day before that. Better, even.

Okay then. That's that.

"I love John," he says, experimentally. It has a surprisingly delightful ring to it. "I am indeed in love with my flat mate. I love a former army doctor. I love a man that types with two fingers. The one that I love has an unfortunate affection for ugly jumpers. The object of my love is named John. Dr. Watson. I love _John."_

Sherlock continues babbling gleefully to himself, his sudden ascension into a good mood silencing his urge to fuss over the hotel's lack of decent conditioner. Something warm and bubbly swells in his chest and he finds himself powerless to resist the huge, beaming smile that spreads across his face. Not only has he been gifted with clarity—he certainly knows how to define his feelings for John now—but he is also experiencing the strangest, giddiest feeling of his life. He feels as if all of his blood has been replaced with champagne and fireworks.

Is this what love feels like for other people too? This exciting, swooning sensation that sends sparks from the top of the spine to the ends of each toe?

Sherlock loves John and it feels _delicious._

He finishes his shower with great enthusiasm. The world somehow looks three shades brighter than before; even the dingy bathroom seems a bit prettier now that he is _officially_ in love. Oh, this is just wonderful. As he towels his hair dry, he finally allows himself to happily reminisce on this morning, wherein he was snuggled into John's steadily rising chest, with John's warm, rough palm splayed across his shoulder blades almost _protectively._

Sherlock hums in pleasure and dresses quickly. He needs to talk to John right now.

He pushes open the bathroom door with gusto. "John, I must speak to you,"

But John is not lounging in bed like he expected. Instead he is standing outside on the balcony, fully dressed, holding his mobile to his ear and conversing enthusiastically. Sherlock blinks, his grand mood deflating. _Laura._

Sherlock suddenly finds himself feeling thunderous. He storms across the room, grabs his coat, and flings it from the rack. Of course he immediately decides he'd rather wear it, so after he picks it up and puts it on he throws John's coat from the rack instead. There: that's better. He notices that John, who still possesses cleaning habits from his days of service, has unnecessarily made the bed. Sherlock strides over and promptly rips the sheets from their neatly tucked in corners, sending blankets and pillows flying about the room in disarray. Yes, this is childish, but it feels vindictive and petty and _good._

He shoves his hands into his coat pockets and stands in the middle of the messy room, watching as John eagerly gesticulates a story to Laura. Sherlock can only see bits of his expression since he is pacing and constantly moving in and out of his vision, but John looks quite happy. Even from here Sherlock can see that John's blue eyes are sparkling with laughter and enjoyment. He looks relaxed, he looks pleased.

An abrupt, jarring sadness quells the burning anger in Sherlock's stomach.

He exhales through his nose and suddenly feels quite boneless. Not ten minutes ago he was practically floating, and now all he'd like to do is lie here and feel sorry for himself. Because unfortunately Sherlock forgot to take into account the _reciprocal_ aspect of love—or, in this case, the lack thereof.

He sinks onto the bed and lies atop the pile of disheveled, fluffy blankets. He stares at the ceiling with a scowl. For a man who typically possesses the emotional changeability of chair, this is entirely too many feelings for one morning. He started off in denial, then accepting, then gleefully, deliriously happy, then positively furious, and finally, absolutely dejected. He is quite exhausted now, actually.

He wonders if he should call someone and talk about this. For one brief moment of insanity he considers Mycroft, but thankfully his wits return to him before _that_ atrocity of a plan is carried out. Gavin is out of the question, being that he's hardly adept enough to solve cases, let alone navigate Sherlock's personal problems. Mrs. Hudson would be a viable option, except she is staying with her sister at the moment and Sherlock only has her home number. That leaves Molly. Well, at least she'll be pleased to know her little "crush" theory was correct.

Deciding it will be better for both parties if Sherlock evacuates the room before John sees the mess he has made, Sherlock sweeps out the door immediately. He pauses in the hallway with his hand on the doorknob, wondering if he should leave a note. After a moment of contemplation, he dashes back inside and pulls some paper and a pen from one of the desk drawers.

_Working on case. _He pauses, hovering the pen tip over the page for a moment of hesitation, before pettiness gets the best of him and he finishes with: _Had to leave without you. You were talking with Laura for too long. SH_

Feeling very satisfied with himself, Sherlock neatly places the paper on top of the mess of sheets where John is sure to see it.

* * *

Unsure of exactly where to go, Sherlock wanders into one of Kent's many parks and seats himself on a bench. After a few minutes of jittery overthinking, he pulls out his mobile and dials Molly's number.

"Hello?" Molly's sweet, high voice sounds tinny and distant. Sherlock realizes with slight surprise that he's never actually spoken to Molly over the phone before.

"Yes, hello, Molly. How are you?" He asks cordially. He isn't quite sure how 'friends' are supposed to open a conversation, being that his only phone calls involve him shouting abuse at the Yard or listening to mum chatter on about gardening while he contributes the occasional, _'Ah, I see'. _

"Er—Sherlock? Is that you?" She sounds completely nonplussed.

"Yes, it is I. Molly, I require your assistance,"

"I don't remember giving you my number," she sounds like she is blushing and on the verge of a nervous giggle.

He sighs, already annoyed with the progression of this conversation. "No, Molly, you did not personally hand me your number but I've heard you say it several times throughout the years that I've known you so it was not exactly grueling to recall a mere eleven digits. Now then, like I said, I need your help,"

"Okay," she says, agreeably, "with what?"

"Well," he begins, but finds that the words are stuck in his throat. He takes a deep breath and quickly attempts to articulate his dilemma. "You see, you were quite right when you said I had romantic feelings for John, though I had not recognized them myself until quite recently. It happened when I woke up next to John after we slept together—"

"You _what?"_

Confused, Sherlock starts to repeat himself, before the double meaning of his words hits him square in the face and sets his cheeks ablaze. He tugs at his collar and clears his throat. "No, not like that. I meant we shared a bed," he can hear the relieved '_oh_' from Molly, but plows on without acknowledgment. "I realized quite abruptly that I am in love with him. At first I was pleased, but then it occurred to me that he does not feel the same way at all,"

Molly hums sympathetically, but her voice sounds much sadder than the situation merits. Almost as if she is grieving something other than Sherlock's problem. "Oh, Sherlock,"

"How am I supposed to deal with this?"

Molly clears her throat and sounds rather choked up as she says, "Well, loving someone that hardly notices you is quite difficult. I can't say there is much to be done, unfortunately,"

He doesn't have time to puzzle over her melancholic tone (surely she isn't _that _empathetic?) because he immediately feels a similar sadness engulf him. Her words drift through his mind like a cold, sobering fog. "So, am I expected to just ignore my feelings? Pretend that we are only friends?"

She clears her throat. When she speaks again her voice sounds a bit watery. "Yes. It really helps to move on and meet other people. Or so I've heard."

He furrows his brow. This conversation has taken a very strange tone. For the first time in all of the five years that he has known her, Sherlock asks, "Molly, are you alright?"

The other end is silent for several beats and Sherlock wonders if she has hung up. "Molly?"

"Yes, yes I'm here," she sniffles, then covers the receiver so he can't hear whatever is happening on her end. "And…and yes, I'm okay. I'm fine, or at least I will be. I met this great bloke at work last week and I-I think I'll say yes next time he asks me out. So…yes, Sherlock, I'm alright." By the end of her strange and fairly irrelevant sentence she does sound better, so Sherlock contents himself with one final question.

"Is love worth it, Molly?"

Sounding much stronger than she has for the entire conversation, she replies, "Yes. One thousand times yes. It hurts like hell sometimes and it often leads one to look like a babbling fool, but it is the most wonderful feeling in the world once that person loves you back. Suddenly all of the shite you went through is worth it. It's such a beautiful, fragile, _rare _thing, Sherlock, and I hope you find it with John, I really do. Almost as much as I hope to find it for myself," she sniffles again, but this time she sounds tentatively happy. Sherlock realizes with no small amount of surprise that she has been crying. On the tail end of that realization, another of equal blatancy occurs to him: Molly feels for Sherlock the way Sherlock feels for John.

"Molly," Sherlock begins, wishing his voice did not sound so unsure, "You are a very important person to me," he pauses again and clears his throat. "You are a good friend. Thank you for helping me with this."

Molly is silent again, but this time it feels like she is perhaps smiling to herself on the other end rather than crying. "Thank you, Sherlock, I'm sure that wasn't easy," she teases, offering a watery chuckle. "I'm glad that we are…friends."

He can tell she is feeling better, which is a considerable achievement considering the circumstances. Despite this feeling of accomplishment, he is rather uncomfortable with the onslaught of emotions today has flung at him, so he offers Molly another genuine thank you and then says goodbye. He sets his mobile down beside him, somehow feeling both better and worse than before. It is nice to hear how wonderful love is when it is reciprocated, but that hardly improves his current situation. If anything, it has made it even more unbearable because he now knows what he is missing out on.

He sighs and begins absently deducing boring park-goers. A few minutes into it, his phone buzzes with two texts: Mycroft and John._ Obligation before pleasure,_ he thinks to himself and opens Mycroft's text:

**_Sent at: 10:30am_**

_What have I told you, brother? Caring is not an advantage. MH _

Sherlock breathes loudly through his nose. What the bloody hell, Mycroft. Must he have his fingers in _every_ pie in England? (Which is to say, both figurative _and _literal pies)

**_Sent at: 10:32am _**

_If you send me another text that does not directly pertain to the case, I will throw my phone into a river and never get a new one. SH_

**_Sent at: 10:33am _**

_Ah, but then how would dear John contact you? MH_

Sherlock glares so hard at the screen that his eyes actually feel hot. He doesn't bother deigning to reply. Instead, he stands up and roams the scenic park in hopes of returning his blood pressure to normal levels. Mycroft does agitate him so. Time slips by as he paces his way up and down the cobblestone paths, wracking his brain for solutions to his John Problem while simultaneously trying to distract himself with irrelevant thoughts so as not to think about said Problem. It's all very contradictory and tiring.

Eventually, he remembers John's text and pulls out his phone to read it, only to find that he has sent several more since:

**_Sent at: 10:30am_**

_You absolute berk! Why did you unmake the bed? This place is a disaster! JW_

**_Sent at: 10:35am_**

_And what do you mean I was taking too long! You were out the shower for ten minutes before you left, why didn't you give me a heads-up? JW_

**_Sent at: 10:50am_**

_Where are you? JW_

**_Sent at: 11:00am_**

_Sherlock answer your blasted phone right now. JW_

**_Sent at 11:15am_**

_SHELOCK. JW_

**_Sent at: 11:40am_**

_I did not come all the way to bloody Kent to sit in a hotel while you have all the fun. JW_

Sherlock immediately texts back with trademark ambiguity that he knows will both annoy and excite John:

**_Sent at: 12:05am_**

_Meet me police station. Case solved. SH_

And he is not lying, either. He solved Mycroft's case the moment he laid eyes on the man's corpse—because as it turns out the biggest obstacle in this mystery was the idiocy of Kent's investigators and their lack of substantial evidence files, not the actual case itself. The man was clearly not killed by a gang, rather his death came by his own hand. Several grams of cocaine and a handful of antidepressant tablets; quite the lethal mix.

The only reason he did not inform the simpletons—er, _detectives—_of his discovery yesterday, was because bloody Richards wouldn't let him speak three intelligent words without immediately interrupting, and it would have hardly been satisfying to just blurt out the case's conclusion without the stream of deductions that customarily followed.

Although he knows John will not like to be kept waiting at the Station, he must first run a few errands in order to collect enough evidence to appease the detectives. It'd be a much quicker process if the idiots would just take his word for gospel, but unfortunately they are especially obtuse and will require tangible proof to be convinced.

After briefly visiting a tattoo parlor and the victim's flat building, his arms are filled with a sufficient amount of evidence.

Sherlock readjusts his scarf around his neck, lifts his collar, and begins his walk to the Station. With a smirk, he imagines the utterly dumbfounded expressions the detectives will wear once he strolls into the building and solves the case before their very eyes. Despite his aversion to preserving memories, Sherlock has to fight the temptation to purchase a camera on the way, solely so he can capture Detective Richards's fuming expression as he is proved incorrect. It will undoubtedly be _priceless._

* * *

John looks somewhere between cross and amazed when Sherlock approaches him on the front steps of the Police Station and casually remarks, "I've solved it, let us inform the detectives and leave,"

John's face starts to scrunch up in annoyance, but curiosity wins him over before the scowl has time to fully form. "You solved it already? How? Where did you go?"

Aloof as anything, Sherlock lifts his shoulders in an elegant shrug. "Details, John, are tedious and unnecessary at the moment,"

John then notices what he is carrying. "Why are you holding a laptop, a mobile, and some bloke's trousers in a box?" John narrows his eyes at the label Sherlock has messily scribbled onto it. "_'Evidence for the evi-dense?_' I'm guessing you're referring to the detectives?"

"Yes," announces Sherlock, proudly. "I was feeling rather accomplished on my way over, so I decided a bit of wordplay was in order."

John does an impressive job of hiding his amusement. "Bit cheesy, don't you think? Seems like something I would write."

In a moment of complete candidacy, Sherlock thoughtlessly replies, "Well, I was thinking about you quite a lot today so perhaps that's why." He regrets the words as soon as they leave his lips. He bites the inside of his cheek and stiffens in anticipation of John's confused-and-disturbed _'what?'_

But John just grins and rolls his eyes. "Well, Sherlock, if I knew I was going to rub off on you so easily, I would have made sure you gained my cleaning skills rather than my appreciation for puns,"

Sherlock is so surprised by John's completely relaxed response that he finds himself speechless for a moment. He clears his throat as soon as his wits return to him, averting his eyes to something that is _not_ unpredictable and wonderful and named John.

"As I said, we ought to head inside. I may have texted Richards and demanded that he and his entire team show up. Wouldn't want them to leave before the case is concluded." Sherlock turns on his heel and begins to stride up the steps.

"Wait," John stops him, his warm, rough palm firmly clasping Sherlock's shoulder. "Aren't you going to tell me how you solved it?"

Sherlock ignores John's hand and the resulting blush that is spreading on his neck and simply shakes his head. "No, but you needn't wait long, John,"

John chuckles in spite of himself, his eyes bright and playful. "You utter prat. You just want to wait until we're in a room full of people to explain the case, don't you? You and you're bloody dramatics." Then John sidles up alongside him and begins walking up the steps too.

Sherlock doesn't reply, but the undeniable fondness in John's tone inspires a smile that he is powerless to conceal.

* * *

Unlike John, Detective Richards is not exactly charmed to find Sherlock has solved the case on his own.

"You _what_? How?" His mustache is twitching angrily, face as red as boiled tomatoes.

Calmly, Sherlock replies, "Yes, Richards, I did. The man's name is Joseph Malloy and he was not killed by a drug-gang; he killed himself in his room with about eight antidepressant tablets and several grams of cocaine. Afterwards, he was discovered by his flat mate—"

"Whoa, hold on just a minute. The body was discovered on a _beach,_ Mr. Holmes," he corrects tersely, "not the victim's room. And even if that was the case, how could you possibly know he was found by the flat mate?"

Sherlock glares down at him and scowls. "If you would just let me finish without your inane interruptions you'll perhaps find out," he peers around the room at the several investigators and detectives, daring one to say something. To his satisfaction, no one speaks. "As I was saying: Joseph killed himself in his room—physique says homebody, autopsy identifies the lethal amount of drugs, thus: in-house suicide by overdose—and soon after he died, he was discovered by his flat mate. His financial records will easily verify that he had a flat mate by the way, in case you have doubts," he directs that particular comment at Richards, "Now, this of course begs the question: if Joseph died in his room by his own means, who would move the body to the beach and risk incriminating themselves? Well, that answer is slightly more complex. You see, Joseph and his flat mate did not get on, and their animosity towards each other can easily be deduced from the items found in his room," Sherlock gestures to the box he has set on the table. "Many of his personal articles are in mint condition, indicating that he took very good care of his things. However, other items such as his mobile, laptop, and several pieces of clothing, are in poor condition. Look at these scuff marks here, and the cracked screen here; clearly, this damage was done by someone else. That 'someone else' was his flat mate, Gregory Paulson.

"The two often 'pranked' each other by messing with the other's possessions. But three days ago, Gregory became particularly malicious and went too far. He filled a mint tin with ecstasy tablets and slipped them into Joseph's room, in hopes of humiliating the man while he was unintentionally high. Little did Gregory know, Joseph was already doing a hefty amount of drugs in secret. Three days ago while Gregory was out, one suicidal Joseph Malloy began ingesting the pills and cocaine. In the throes of death, he swayed and knocked over the tin of 'mints', scattering them across the floor. When Gregory returned, he took one look at the dead body and spilled tablets, and drew the logical conclusion that Joseph had overdosed on ecstasy. Thinking he killed Joseph, he threw his body into the back of his truck and drove to the nearest place he could dump a corpse: the ocean. There, he stripped him of his clothes and identifications in hopes that the body would never be identified and traced back to him. As we all know, Joseph eventually washed up on shore. Gregory has not yet left the country, though that is subject to change, being that he is still convinced that he is a murderer."

Complete and utter silence falls across the crowd of investigators and detectives. Sherlock experiences a brief sting of regret when he glances at Richards's dumbfounded expression and remembers he does not have a camera to capture it.

Weakly, Detective Richards asks, "And the severed tongue?"

"Bitten off during a seizure that occurred seconds prior to his death."

"And… and as you said, he had no identifications on him, so how do you know who he is?"

"Quite simple. The tattoo on his chest—the one you lot wrongly assumed was a gang marking—was designed and inked by a local tattoo artist, who luckily keeps a very organized log of his clients. I simply showed him a photograph and he immediately recognized the design. It took minutes to find the identity of the man,"

"But-but how could you be sure about the ecstasy tablets?

"Well, today I visited his flat and inspected his room—"

"How did you get into the flat?" Richards interrupts, accusingly.

Sherlock's eyes flash. "The door was unlocked. Didn't I say Gregory left in a hurry?" (And yes, perhaps that wasn't entirely true, but the fact that Sherlock picked the lock is hardly relevant) "Anyway, I found the empty mint tin kicked underneath the bed as well as the granules of an ecstasy tablet that had been crushed into the carpet, probably by Gregory's shoe. The rest had been haphazardly tossed into the bin. I made sure to place some into an evidence bag, if you'd like to see for yourself,"

Detective Richards, still reluctant to accept that Sherlock's theory has no holes, furrows his brow. "Okay…but how can you prove the drugs belong to Gregory?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "His room is stashed with several types of drugs, each far less benign than ecstasy. If you go to his mother's house—where he is currently hiding—and put him under questioning he will confess within minutes. He's a jittery young man with frequent anxiety attacks—the neurotic nail marks on his furniture, the obsessive cleanliness of his room, not to mention the paranoia that naturally accompanies drug use—so it is unlikely that he will hold up very long under questioning. In the unlikely case that he does not confess, I recommend getting a search warrant and looking around his flat with drug-sniffing dogs and a few investigators with more than half a brain. That should provide you with all of the evidence you need. Although Gregory is no murderer, he still possesses enough illegal substances to earn a lengthy sentence." He pauses to take a deep breath and assess the room, finding the crowd just as shocked and silent as before.

"Now then!" Sherlock says, loudly clapping his hands together, effectively shaking the group of out their daze. "In summation, this was a suicide not a murder, and the dead man's flat mate is currently hording about ten thousand pounds worth of drugs in his flat. Arrest Gregory, bury Joseph. Consider your case _solved._"

John, who has managed to keep his comments at bay throughout the entire explanation, blurts out, "That…that was _brilliant_, Sherlock!" And the genuine eagerness of his words makes Sherlock's skin tingle. "Absolutely bloody fantastic." He sounds just as amazed as when they first met, and in Sherlock's opinion _that_ is what is truly fantastic.

Sherlock is so busy staring adoringly at John that it takes him a full ten seconds to register the gradually-building applause that is filling the room. He blinks in surprise and turns his focus away from John's grin, realizing that all of the detectives and investigators—save for Richards—are applauding him. Beneath the din, he can hear people saying things like, _"I knew he was a genius, but that was incredible"_ and _"Mad but brilliant" _and, "_What the bloody hell is Richards doing in charge when there's a guy like that around?"_

It should be wonderful and gratifying, but in truth it just makes him feel wildly uncomfortable. He 'gets his kicks' from earning begrudging statements like, "Yeah, you were right, Sherlock", because he knows how to respond to that. But, actual praise? He has no bloody clue what to do.

Feeling quite awkward, he shoves his hands in his coat and raises his chin, expression unmoved and distant. To any observer it looks as if he hasn't even noticed the cheering crowd surrounding him. He is just about to make a hasty exit, when he feels a warm hand press against his back and guide him away from the center of the group. Sherlock blinks down at John, who is for whatever reason smiling at him like he just saved a litter of kittens from a tree. The applause peters out as they walk away, and the detectives' attention returns to the box of evidence and files Sherlock placed on the table.

"It's alright to smile, you know. People were congratulating you; they're impressed," John reminds him patiently, once they've reached the outskirts of the crowd. John's smile mellows down, but his eyes remain overbright and sparkling. "You're a bloody wonder, you know that?"

Sherlock swallows, a wave of gooseflesh rolling down his arms. "Not really, John, it was hardly a difficult case."

"Really now? Because it had them stumped, and there's no way anyone else besides you could have figured it out."

Sherlock has the briefest urge to remind John that Mycroft could have solved it too, but any mention of his brother is unsavory at best so he decides against it. However, with that response nixed, he has no idea what to say. He is thoroughly frustrated by his own uncharacteristic inarticulacy. "Well, I mean, I'm sure if they just looked, er, harder, they could've—"

John stops him with a raised hand. "Sherlock, this is me trying to give you a compliment. I know I always say that you are brilliant, because you are, but this time I am _officially _complimenting you. The typical response is 'thank you'."

Sherlock blinks. Ever since the emotional rollercoaster ride that followed his Big Realization this morning, Sherlock has not really allowed himself to think about his feelings for John. There is just too much going on at the moment to give the matter the attention and deliberation it deserves. Hours ago, he decided he will figure it out on the train ride back home while John is taking another nap. However, John is making it rather difficult to stick with that plan since he keeps doing wonderful little things that force Sherlock's feelings for him to explode through his veins and heart and mind in a way that is quite impossible to ignore.

"Well, thank you, John," Sherlock says at last, face uncomfortably warm. John beams.

"Now that we've got that all wrapped up, what do you say we head back to the hotel, pack up, and then get the next train to London?"

"Yes, let's." He raises his collar and readjusts his gloves. "Kindly inform Richards that we will be departing," he tells a nearby detective, caring very little that he is already engaged in a conversation with someone else. "Adieu." Sherlock calls, airily, before throwing the doors open and leaving the Station in a dramatic swoosh of his black coat.

* * *

"Sherlock, will you please sit still?"

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock finds that solving his John Problem is rather difficult while John is running his fingers through his hair. So much for his plans of having a good long think on the way back to London.

Sherlock huffs. "John, we are on a _train_. I am not the one jostling about, it's this entire bloody vehicle. And for the last time: I am fine! I am not on the brink of a concussion, nor do I have any wounds that require medical attention."

John gives him a look of mock-conviction. "Oh really? You're fine? Then pray tell me: what is this?" John pulls his right hand out from within Sherlock's curls and shows him the smear of red on his fingertips. "Because from a doctor's standpoint, I'd say this is a little medical phenomenon we like to call 'blood'. Amazing thing, blood. In most cases, it tends to be a result of something else we call a 'wound'."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "As always, John, your sarcasm is not appreciated. And besides, all I did was hit my head against a wall. I assure you, far worse has befallen me. "

John ignores him. "Sherlock, please explain to me why you felt the need to tell that man about his wife's affair_, in his wife's presence_? Or at all, really? You're lucky all he managed to do was push you into that wall; big bloke like that could've done far worse damage." John digs into his carry-on bag for a salve to ease the pain, temporarily distracted from his scolding.

Sherlock pouts, unconcerned with how juvenile it may look. "If you've forgotten, John, he tried to start a fight with you first. Big, brawny, brainless fool like that was trying to start something with every bloke he came across today, you were just unfortunate enough to be the last one. He knocked into your bad shoulder on purpose, John! He wanted to push you around a bit to show off to his wife; if I hadn't said something he would've hit you."

John is silent as he carefully dabs the salve along the base of Sherlock's hairline and along the nape of his neck. Sherlock, despite his whining, sighs softly in relief as the cream saps most of the pain away. Without thinking, he pushes his head further into John's careful hand, causing John's entire palm to press against the top of Sherlock's skull. Almost tentatively, he drags his fingers through Sherlock's curls, still silent and seemingly transfixed on the task. The exploration quickly loses it medical purpose when John gently brushes Sherlock's hair back from his forehead with his entire palm, slowly running over the curls in an appreciative manner. A pleased, involuntary noise rumbles in Sherlock's throat and John is snapped back to reality. Almost reluctantly, he withdraws his hand.

"Sherlock, are you saying you were protecting me?"

Sherlock blinks languidly, absurdly pacified from that brief touch. Dear god if John ever figures out that the key to a calm Sherlock is his sensitive scalp, he'll be absolutely done for. "Yes, of course," Sherlock replies, unthinkingly. "I don't want you to ever get hurt, if I can help it."

John is quiet for a moment and then he huffs out a little chuckle, a smile spreading on his face. He leans back in his seat and faces the front, but he lays his hand over Sherlock's. Not quite holding it, just allowing the two of them to touch. "I suppose I'm lucky I met you," he muses, "And visa-versa, being that you and I are always saving each other and all."

Sherlock nods. John's hand feels warm and rough and if he were in any state of mind to deduce, he'd know that there are exactly four paper cuts along his index finger, a blister on the heel of his palm, and residual soap from the hotel bathroom in the crease of his wrist. However, Sherlock decides that a moment like this ought to be savored instead of analyzed, so he closes his eyes, tunes out his mind, and revels in the feeling.

* * *

The very afternoon that Sherlock and John return to London, Lestrade bombards them with a new case. Unlike in the past, he does not text Sherlock first and ask nicely, nor does he subtly leave a pile of files on his front porch. Instead, Lestrade just knocks on the door of their flat, bold as brass, and hands Sherlock a case file clipped to a stack of photos.

"Listen, I know you lot just got off a case, but I've been sitting on this one for the days you were gone and I'm unashamed to say the Yard needs your help, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighs wearily and snatches the file from Lestrade. "You say that as if it is remarkable, Gavin. When_ hasn't_ the Yard required my assistance?"

Lestrade narrows his eyes. "First off all, it's _Greg_, for the fifth time this month. Secondly, I don't care how it makes us look, we just really need you to look at this one. Serial murderer on the loose, but we suspect that he isn't very clever because most of the victims have been found and identified quite easily, and he has left his weapon of choice at the crime scene more than once. It just reeks of amateurism. Our problem is, we can't find the common thread between the victims; right now they've seemingly been killed at random. Being that we can't find a connection, it's very difficult to pin down a suspect. We've gathered data on more than two dozen possible killers, but now we're stumped. "

Sherlock nods, only half listening as he leafs through the file and makes his own observations about the killer. Lestrade is definitely correct about this being an amateur, but he is completely wrong in his assumption that the killings are random. The one thing that each victim has in common is clearly money, meaning that the killer is someone that is most likely quite young and homeless. He robs people and then he kills him. The crime scenes seem absurdly easy to figure out because they _are_; there is no finesse to these murders, this is merely the result of a desperate, penniless man who knows nothing other than how to wield a knife. Sherlock snaps the file shut, effectively cutting off whatever Lestrade was in the middle of saying.

"This shouldn't take long. Go back to the Yard and gather all of the suspects' files, I can look through them and align my theories with a guilty party. I'll grab my coat and John and I will meet you there in a half hour."

"Sherlock, don't you think John may be a bit tired from all the casework already?"

Sherlock waves that idea away. "John didn't get to do much hands-on work in Kent, and this case seems like it will involve a chase at some point, so he will definitely be interested."

Lestrade rolls his eyes and turns to leave. "You lot get stranger and stranger every day. See you in a half."

* * *

It takes Sherlock less than ten minutes to sift through the thick stack of suspects and find the killer. Just as Lestrade is preparing to assemble a team to scour the city for him, Sherlock points out that the man can be easily tracked by his homeless network. At the word "homeless", Donovan's face scrunches up in distaste.

"You run a network of tramps? Can hardly say I'm surprised to be honest," she scoffs and looks to Anderson. "Should've known Freak would have his own little gang of misfits to guide around."

John bristles. "Sorry, what was that, Donovan? You said you'd rather have a killer on the loose than resort to Sherlock's homeless network?"

Donovan glares at the pair of them but says nothing in response. John squares his shoulder and tips his chin in triumph.

Sherlock watches the exchange with interest. John definitely looks the part of the soldier whenever he gets protective. Sherlock clears his throat, "Well, come now, John. We have a few people to speak with. Lestrade," Sherlock says, turning to face the DI, "I will text you when we've caught him."

Lestrade looks wary, "Sherlock, I can't just let you two go after this guy alone; remember, he has killed three people now. Here, at least allow one of our cop cars to trail you—"

"Are you serious? Lestrade, if there is a police car two hundred yards behind us all evening no one is going to willingly approach us, much less the killer. Absolutely not. John and I must do this alone so as not to arouse suspicion. We will—" Sherlock is cut off by the sound of his mobile buzzing in his pocket.

Annoyed, he checks the text he just received.

**_Sent at: 4:35pm_**

_Tell Gregory he needn't worry, I'll be watching the two of you over the CCTV system. MH_

**_Sent at: 4:37pm_**

_Since when are you and Lestrade on a first name basis? And whatever, do as you wish. SH_

**_Sent at: 4:38pm_**

_None of your business, brother dear. And I certainly plan to. MH_

Sherlock glances back up at Lestrade and wordlessly shows him the screen. Masterfully hiding any sort of discomfort, Lestrade glosses right over the 'Gregory' bit and says, "Excellent, if your brother is keeping an eye out then feel free to go."

Just to be difficult, Sherlock snaps, "Perhaps _you _value Mycroft's consent, but I would've gone regardless of my brother's permission, _Gregory."_

Then, he grabs John and strides from the building, leaving a rather flustered Lestrade in his wake.

* * *

The pair of them walk in comfortable silence, John taking in the scenery and absently running his fingers over the gun in his left pocket, while Sherlock hums a ballad and contemplates how much he ought to bribe the next homeless informant.

All in all, it is a fairly typical stroll.

Sherlock stops when they reach the corner where a pale-haired woman is raptly working on a crossword puzzle against the newspaper stand. She stops leaning and straightens her posture when she sees Sherlock approaching. When they are within a few feet of each other, he digs into his pocket for a packet of cigarettes and two tenners, and her eyes immediately lose their clouded appearance.

"We're looking for Seth Banks," Sherlock says casually, purposefully not speaking in her direction. From a distance they look like two strangers that just happen to be standing within close proximity.

"Ain't heard of 'im," she replies, not bothering to look up from the puzzle she is studiously filling in.

"Mm, no of course not. Thank you," Sherlock gives her a long, firm handshake, slips the money and cigarettes into her waiting palms, and then strides away from her, John confusedly following behind.

"Sherlock, what…?"

"Sometimes, John, it is safer to use written rather than spoken word." He holds up the wrinkled crossword paper where she has messily scribbled an address. "He can be found right here. I suspect this will not take long, now."

John raises his eyebrows, impressed. Sherlock smirks. "What have I said? The homeless are endlessly efficient."

* * *

He is such an idiot, such a damned _fool._

Out of all the idiotic, foolish things he has done today, this has to take the cake.

He and John had found Seth exactly where his informant predicted. Then, as Sherlock expected, the man immediately sprinted away the moment he laid eyes on them. They had looked at each other once, exchanged a weird sort of grin, and then dashed off after him like marathon runners.

Everything had been going perfectly: the adrenaline rush, the spike in his blood pressure, the hardy pound of his heart against his ribs. Then everything went to shite the minute John shouted "No, _this _way," and tugged Sherlock in said direction by the hand. _By the hand._ John Watson was holding his bare hand—he'd forgotten his gloves at the flat—and his mind completely flew off its neat, organized axis.

Still holding hands, they cornered him in an alley. Sherlock should have noticed the knife concealed in the lining of the bloke's jacket, he should have seen the mad glint of desperation in his eyes as he and John backed him into the alley's corner. He is Sherlock _bloody _Holmes for Christ's sake, _he should have noticed_.

But he didn't, because he was stupidly, ridiculously, hopelessly lost in the sensation of John holding his hand and pulling him along, his typically sharp senses numbed by the chaste contact. _Stupid. _

In his wit's absence, the criminal managed to plunge a short Swiss army knife into his abdomen. It didn't go all that deep—thanks to both his thick coat and the man's awkward stabbing angle—but it was still enough to make him immediately crumple to the floor in pain. John looked at him once, quickly assessed that it wasn't fatal, and then sprinted after the perpetrator with a surprising amount of speed. He tackled him to the ground within seconds. After he phoned the local police and knocked the man unconscious with the butt of his less-than-legal gun—so the man couldn't escape, of course. _Not_ just because it made John feel tough—he immediately darted to Sherlock's side like a fretting hen.

Which brings Sherlock to the present, in which he is laying on the sidewalk, knife wedged into a non-fatal area of his torso, bleeding through one of his nice shirts like the reckless sod Mycroft and half of London often accuse him of being.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, stay with me here, don't worry, it's going to be fine, he didn't strike you anywhere vital," John murmurs, stroking Sherlock's hair back to simultaneously comfort him and check for any injuries. Despite the jarring pain that is shooting through every nerve, Sherlock feels calm the moment John sets his warm, rough palm on his forehead. He feels safe, content. Unconsciously, he pushes his head into the touch.

"Hey, Sherlock, stay with me here, okay? I know I said it isn't fatal and the injury isn't even remotely near your head, but I don't fancy the idea of you passing out, so please try to stay conscious. Tell me about something interesting, make some deductions," he asks, his calm tone clearly masking panic. Sherlock knows he isn't going to die and John knows too, he is a doctor after all, but for some reason he is panicking. At most Sherlock will need stitches and an uncomfortable few hours of recovery in hospital, but nothing more, and certainly not _death, w_hich John seems to think is a possibility.

"John, I'm quite alright, it's hardly something to panic over," he says, steadily. Well, as steadily as he can manage, anyway. To his credit he _is _lying on the ground with a seeping knife wound, so the mere fact that is still able to grit out a reasonable sentence at all is quite impressive.

"I know that, Sherlock, but until the paramedics arrive I'd really like you to remain conscious. Deductions. Now,"

Sherlock's gaze roves unhurriedly over John's features: dark-blue eyes peering at him from beneath an awning of blonde lashes, pink mouth pursed in concern, the white bone of his teeth worrying his bottom lip in a rather tortuous fashion. In the privacy of his mind Sherlock chuckles drily at the fact that even though he is lying on the sidewalk with a gaping knife-wound gushing at his side, he is still thinking of John's mouth and eyes. (To be fair, they are a rather delicious pair of features)

"Okay, that red-haired bloke obviously dislikes his girlfriend's mum – he's tugging at the

collar of an oversized, expensive-looking jumper that was purchased by her as a birthday gift, clearly showing his dislike for her through his irritation with the clothing – and is considering breaking up with his girlfriend because of it," he wets his lips and sweeps the area once more before landing on another target, "And that woman – _there_ – with the crying baby, you can tell she just found out that her husband's been cheating on her by the way she is worrying her ring and glancing at the howling child with regret as if to question what she has gotten herself into,

"And that man over there—" he hisses in pain, "That—he—impending affair with—wife's friend—" Sherlock shuts his eyes very tightly and focuses on breathing in and out through his nose without moving so as not to aggravate his wound. Above him, John is panicking again and running his clinical, searching hands all over Sherlock's face, his chest, his wrists, ghosting over the wound and his heart, all the while muttering nonsensical placations.

"_You're fine, you're okay, this is just a delayed reaction you're experiencing, you're alright, look, see, the blood's already clotting, just hold on, deep slow breaths, yes just like that, keep your eyes shut, in out in out, yes, don't worry,"_

As they load him up onto the gurney, John grips his hand, says "I will meet you at hospital, okay? You're alright, you're going to be fine," and then presses the world's shortest kiss to his forehead.

Sherlock has the time to think '_that felt rather good'_ before the sedatives kick in and oblivion claims him.

* * *

When consciousness returns, Sherlock is struck by two rather interesting realizations. One: anesthetics are much stronger than he thought, and two: there is a very warm, pleasant-smelling body half-splayed across his.

Gingerly, he lifts his left arm – which had been limply hanging off the side of his bed – and touches the top of the person's head. In disbelief, he realizes that _John_ is sleeping on his chest.

John's chair is pulled up close to the side of Sherlock's bed and John is spilling forward from it, half of his body laying over Sherlock's. His head is right beneath Sherlock's chin. The slightly sweet, clean smell of John's shampoo tickles his nose and Sherlock doesn't hesitate to inhale deeply. As the feeling in his right hand returns, he realizes that John is not only touching his hand, but has intertwined their fingers and maintained a tight grip as well.

Needless to say, the stitches in his abdomen are easily forgotten.

Sherlock lays there motionless for a few minutes, reluctant to move in fear of waking John, soaking in the delicious, warm feeling that trickles from his wildly-beating heart to his curled toes. Just as he's contemplating running his fingers through John's hair, the door opens and a nurse walks in. She seems startled to find him awake.

"S. Holmes, correct?" She asks, unsurely.

Annoyed at the interruption, Sherlock nods tersely and puts his left index finger to his lips to indicate that she ought to keep her voice down, _otherwise she'll bloody wake John and that is just not okay right now. _

"It's just…well, sir, judging by the amount of anesthetics you've received," she pauses to check a sheet of paper on her clipboard, "you aren't expected to be awake for another two hours,"

_Yes, well those estimates don't apply to a former cocaine addict. My body is quite conditioned to drugs._

Dismissively, Sherlock replies, "Well I'm plainly awake right now, so it appears your calculations are wrong,"

She narrows her eyes at him. "I assure you, sir, they are not—"

"Mm, yes, you're_ right_," he snaps, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I _am _sound asleep. Do wake me in the determined two hours, will you, nurse?"

He looks away from her and returns his attention to John. A familiar rush of adrenaline and warmth floods through his veins just by merely glancing at John's sleeping form. A strange jolt of possessiveness comes along as well, and he finds himself placing a splayed palm on John's back. He digs the pads of his fingertips into the material of John's sweater, holding him as closely as possible.

The nurse, who previously looked like she was contemplating ripping the raw stiches from Sherlock's side, softens at the sight. "Is he your boyfriend or husband?" She asks, her mouth curved into a begrudging smile.

Sherlock considers. "We prefer no labels,"

"Ah, yes, I understand. My partner and I were like that for a while, before we got married. Of course,_ now_ I have no choice but to call her my wife," she chuckles to herself and grins. "You two make a very beautiful couple, Mr. Holmes. You should know that as soon as he was allowed in he did not move from that chair_ once_,"

Sherlock's face heats and he can't resist the pleased smile that spreads on his lips. "Yes, well." He mutters vaguely, attempting to appear blasé despite the ridiculous bubble of happiness rising in his chest.

"I suppose I'll go and inform the doctor that you've woken. Have a pleasant day, Mr. Holmes." She gives him one last smile before leaving the room.

Sherlock sighs in contentment. He'll get stiches in his abdomen every weekend if it means waking up to John sleeping on him like this.

He's just started running his fingers through the soft, grey-blonde hairs at the base of John's skull when he feels John's mobile vibrate in his pocket. John immediately jerks awake and blearily pats his pockets for his mobile. In his search for his phone, he gains complete awareness and realizes just how he was positioned moments ago.

"Er, sorry about practically collapsing on you like that," John says, sheepishly. "I was bloody exhausted and overestimated my ability to sleep upright all night."

Sherlock doesn't get the chance to say John can sleep like that whenever he likes, because John finally locates his ringing phone and brings it to his ear. "Laura!" exclaims John, "Hey, yeah, I'm good, how are you?" John stands up and mouths '_I'll be out there'_ and then takes his phone call into the hallway.

The scowl that overtakes Sherlock's features is so fierce that it actually hurts his face muscles. He lets his head fall against the backboard with a resounding smack, which he immediately regrets because there are at least two tender stiches crawling up the side of his skull from when he fell to the floor, post stabbing.

He groans and rubs the back of his head.

**_Sent at: 8:10am_**

_Getting involved in matters of emotion is not wise, brother mine. MH_

**_Sent at: 8:15am_**

_Yes, well neither is consuming an entire bakery's worth of cake on a daily basis, Mycroft, but you do so anyway. I suppose neither of us are exactly wise. SH_

**_Sent at: 8:20am_**

_Childish retorts do not take away the truth of what I've said, Sherlock. MH_

Sherlock glares at the screen of his phone and scowls even more fiercely than before. Stupid sodding Mycroft and his annoying, bothersome texts. Sherlock will not admit that Mycroft is right. Sherlock refuses.

Sherlock also refuses to acknowledge that perhaps the reason he is so irritated with Mycroft's text is because he does not want to confront the actual dilemma of his one-sided love for John, since facing such a thought is rather disheartening. Thinking about the way he feels for John, and then thinking about bloody Laura and every other unworthy woman in John's life makes Sherlock feel simultaneously furious and heart broken.

It isn't fair. People should fall in love at the same pace, with the same people.

**_Sent at: 8:22am _**

_Bugger off. SH_

* * *

**A/N: So, what did you think? Just so you guys know, comments and reviews are GREAT motivation to update quicker, just saying. *nudge nudge* *wink wink* Regardless, thank you so much for reading!**

**Chapter four should be up sooner than this one (hopefully!)**

**Thanks again! Until next time, darlings X0X0**

**(but seriously, cannot stress this enough: FEEDBACK IS TO ME WHAT JOHN IS TO SHERLOCK. There. That should do it) **


	4. Of Near Disasters and Birthday Cake

**Hello, loves!**

**I know, I know: _majorly_ quick update. Since I'm not sure how much time I'll have to write next week I wanted to put this up just in case.**

_***Important message in end notes regarding the future of this story! Read it, please and thank you!***_

**Enjoy!**

* * *

In all of his adult life, Sherlock has never bothered to remember anyone's birthdays. If by chance he accidentally overhears a date (_Oh, I can't believe I'll be turning thirty-six on March twelfth!)_, he immediately deletes it and goes on with his day. Mycroft, Lestrade, and even Mrs. Hudson are not exempt from this. Never would he so much as _humor_ the thought of throwing any of them some kind of celebration. Because, after all, why does a birthday require celebration? One does nothing worthy of acknowledgment by simply being born; that's like rewarding someone for _breathing_. Both are equally effortless and undeserving of an entire day's dedication.

However, as usual, John is the exception. John is the kind of wonderful, brilliant man that deserves to be celebrated each and every day for his vast reserves of patience, kindness, capacity for caring, sharp wit, and cleverness. However, since daily festivities in John's honor are a bit excessive, he at least deserves a celebration on the day he was born, because that is the day the universe gained something achingly _significant _and infinitely_ unique. _

Perhaps a few months ago Sherlock wouldn't have seriously considered the thought of doing something special for John's birthday, but due to the fairly new realization that he indeed_ loves_ John, Sherlock has decided to begin taking some steps towards making such a thing known. Of course, that isn't to say he plans on writing amorous proclamations across the surface of a cake in strawberry cream, but he certainly hopes that this act of thoughtfulness will soften John for whenever he decides to confess his affections in the future.

Besides, Sherlock isn't _that _naïve; he knows theoretically how relationships ought to work-small, meaningless celebrations and all-so he's aware that making a fuss over one's partner's birthday is greatly appreciated. (And usually rewarded)

With that decided, the only question that remains is: what does one do to properly celebrate a birthday?

He doesn't bother searching his mind palace, already aware that such a quest will be in vain. Instead he turns to the only other resource aside from his own mind that boasts the ability to provide endless answers.

The internet.

And yes, it _does_ feel a bit ridiculous to stoop over John's laptop – which is easy enough to hack; the password is predictably "Afghanistan", occasionally changed to "Bugger Off" whenever John suspects that Sherlock has been snooping – scrolling through page after page of birthday party ideas.

Sherlock is sitting on the couch, but John's chair looks more comfortable, so he leaps up, strides over, and proceeds to drape himself across it in a dramatic manner that he reserves only for when he is alone. His head lolls over the chair's right arm, his legs splayed recklessly over the left, and the warm laptop rests on his stomach. He cranes his neck and stares at the screen, his long fingers furiously typing into the search bar.

_"__How to celebrate one's flat mate's birthday in a manner that is genuine and simultaneously enjoyable, while also subtly hinting at love/fondness for said flat mate"_

Unsurprisingly, that search does not yield a single result. With an annoyed huff of breath, he reenters something so vague and simple that it makes him wrinkle his nose in disgust: "_Fun birthday ideas". _Several colorful pages pop up, many of them decorated with clowns, cakes, and other forms of nauseatingly-cheery birthday paraphernalia. One site, aptly named '_party planning for dummies'_, includes a graphic depicting what to do and what not to do at a celebration. Sherlock skims it briefly, disgusted with the simple language, poor grammar, and obnoxious font (is that _comic sans_?).

He rolls his eyes and exits out once he glances over the latter part of tip number four, which assures that even if someone claims not to, they really _do _want their face shoved good-naturedly into a cake. The next site he clicks on is titled rather eye-catchingly: "_Birthday Fun for You and Your Man"_

The phrasing is somewhat off-putting, but it's the first result he's seen that suggest something more than a child's birthday party or a friendly get-together. That isn't to say Sherlock doesn't want this to be a friendly occasion, he's simply searching for a bit more than that. With a hopeful breath he clicks on the link and opens the page.

"Oh my," Sherlock mutters, more than a bit thrown off by the image of a scantily-clad woman that immediately pops up at the top of the page. In hot-pink bubble letters reads:

_"__Step #1: Buy a sexy outfit he won't be able to resist. Don't worry about how it looks too much though, you're bound to be in your birthday suit by the end of the night anyway!"_

He blinks.

Curiosity prompts him to scroll down to the bottom of the page, partially in hope that a later tip will cover something less female-specific. (For example: he doesn't have breasts at his disposal, rendering tips three through eight useless)

Unfortunately, the last bubblegum-pink column does not discuss gender nonspecific romantic gestures, nor does it expand upon how one properly celebrates a loved one. Instead it focuses on a rather explicit 'favor' one can perform for their partner, along with a very detailed graphic and even a few reviews from readers. As he exits out, cheeks uncomfortably warm, he decides that at the very least the site deserves credit for being extremely _thorough. _

Weary and more than a bit discouraged, he clicks on another random link, not even bothering to glance at the title.

It is right as the page is loading that Sherlock hears three sharp knocks on his door, each separated by precisely two seconds. It takes even less time for Sherlock to deduce that it is either Mycroft or mummy on the other side of the door, given that both of them have a manner of knocking that suggest money, power, and a sensitivity of the hands. (Which, in unabashed honesty, is to say that Mycroft has the fragile physicality of an old woman: a fact that Sherlock will always find deeply amusing).

Sherlock takes his time heading to the door, making sure his footfalls are loud enough for Mycroft to hear, just so he knows that the delay is completely intentional. Once he swings open the door, he immediately snaps, _"What?"_

Mycroft stares back, face pinched into his customary 'pleased to see you in a perfunctory sort of way' smile, umbrella propped faithfully at his side. He glances at Sherlock's attire, distaste written clearly across his face. "Really, brother? It's nearly two in the afternoon and you couldn't bother with a decent shirt and a proper pair of trousers?"

Sherlock doesn't care that he is currently donning one of John's old cotton t-shirts (which he swiped weeks ago and John still hasn't noticed) and a dress robe. He doesn't care that his hair is a complete wreck of tangled curls and wild, black waves that would rival the chaos of any bird's nest. If anything, this subtle defiance against Mycroft's notions of "proper attire" makes staying in sweatpants all day worth it.

"No, brother, I couldn't," Sherlock replies, succinctly. "Now I'm sure you didn't come all the way here just to reprimand my wardrobe choices, so why not get on with it?"

"A proper host invites his guest in before demanding answers," informs Mycroft, primly.

Sherlock smiles sardonically. "And since when have I been 'proper' to any degree, brother?"

Mycroft sighs, world-weary as ever, and invites himself in as Sherlock loses interest and turns to walk back inside.

Sherlock immediately strolls into the kitchen and returns with the previously untouched plate of chocolate biscuits Mrs. Hudson brought up this morning. Sherlock sets the plate on the coffee table and takes a generous amount simply for the sake of taunting Mycroft. He picks through the armful of treats, pops one into his mouth, and then questions, "And how's the diet, brother?"

Mycroft regards him with saccharine disdain. "Ah, yes, quite splendid, Sherlock, thank you ever so much for asking."

"Your jacket's buttons beg to differ," he remarks, licking the powdered sugar from his right thumb.

"My tailor is on a vacation and his replacement is rather incompetent."

"Mm, yes I'm sure" Sherlock replies airily, biting into another biscuit with feigned relish. "These are quite delicious."

Mycroft only glares.

Sherlock looks unconcerned and saunters over to John's chair, this time seated in a normal fashion, where he reopens the laptop and continues his research. Sherlock doesn't care if it's rude to carry on as if he's alone; Mycroft obviously came here to tell him something and Sherlock will not bother with Smalltalk just to get him to reveal his purpose.

Minutes tick by in silence. Mycroft wanders about the sitting room, umbrella swinging absently at his side, eyes roving unhurriedly throughout the flat. Sherlock can practically see the deductions forming behind that cool expression of his, but he quickly decides that he doesn't care and glances away.

Out of nowhere, Mycroft begins to chuckle heartily into the silence. Sherlock rips his gaze away from the laptop to stare at his brother in shock, because he has only heard Mycroft laugh genuinely like this about five times in his life, and most of those instances are so old that if it weren't for his superb memory, he'd hardly be able to recall them.

"Something amusing?" he asks warily, because it is quite possible his brother has lost his mind.

Mycroft shakes his head, a dumbfounded smile lingering on his lips. A few chuckles stumble out as he attempts half-heartedly to recompose himself. "Oh, Sherlock," he says with a sigh, now gazing about the flat in wonder. "Sherlock I never thought this would happen to you, but it has. Good god, it has."

"What? What are you talking about? What has happened to me?" He demands.

Mycroft glances at him out the corner of his eye and smirks. Purposely not answering, he leans down and plucks a single biscuit from the platter.

"Oh, but your diet," Sherlock reminds, in mock concern.

"Yes, well," he says, lightly, seating himself on the sofa with an air of luxuriousness. "You seem to be indulging yourself around here so I thought I might do so as well," he bites into a corner of the biscuit, eyebrow raised.

"And what is that," Sherlock bites out, "supposed to mean?" Because Mycroft is clearly not talking about the biscuits.

"Oh, nothing much, brother," Mycroft assures around a dainty mouthful, "It's just, well, you've begun wearing his t-shirts now, you're currently seated in his chair, and you're also browsing through his laptop. Frankly, it would not surprise me to find a shrine dedicated to him in your room somewhere. Perhaps a covert notebook in which you catalogue his every facial expression? Or an album of him in various candid scenarios?" Mycroft smirks. "Really, brother, it could not be more obvious if you wrote it across your forehead."

"Shut-" but before the phrase is even out of his mouth, Mycroft says: "You're in love with John," like an indisputable fact.

And it sounds so simple, so confidently phrased, and so _true_, that he can't bring himself to deny it. And what's the point, anyway? Mycroft has clearly already figured it out.

"Yes," Sherlock admits, shortly.

Mycroft looks satisfied. "Well, brother mine, this happens to be the exact topic that I wished to discuss with you today, so I suppose this is an excellent segue," Mycroft announces, as he continues nibbling at the edges of the biscuit. "I was wondering what you plan on doing about your – _condition."_

Sherlock scoffs and shakes his head. "Really, Mycroft? Condition? You make it sound as though I'm ill."

"In a way you are, Sherlock," Mycroft muses. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed the way love tends to turn even the sharpest of minds to rubbish? That isn't to say the same will become of you, of course, but you must proceed with caution nonetheless."

Sherlock narrows his eyes and snaps the laptop shut so he can glare at Mycroft easier. "You think because of my feelings for John I will become _simple?"_

"Mm, perhaps not _simple_ per se, but definitely less logical. Oh, and most certainly not as level-headed as you consider yourself currently."

"Mycroft, _stop_. Do you really believe I can't keep my own mind intact just because I care for someone?" Sherlock scowls indignantly, "Because I_ can_, brother, and I most certainly _will_."

Mycroft stares at him for a long moment, clearly fighting the urge to retort. After a moment, his frustrated expression dissipates with practiced ease and his untroubled, bland smile returns. "Do you plan on sharing any of this with John?"

It's a reasonable question, so Sherlock forces himself to bite back the urge to automatically glare in response. In truth, he hasn't pondered the question too deeply himself, because it always brings an unpleasant sinking feeling to his chest. He takes a deep breath and pointedly glances away. "I'm undecided."

Mycroft, adept as always, catches the unspoken 'what should I do?' and doesn't hesitate to respond, "I've never been one to sugar-coat things for you, Sherlock, and I will not do so now. John has been announcing his sexuality to the world as long as I've known him, and whenever he hasn't said it with his words, he's shown it through the constant stream of women coming to and from this flat. However, my deductions lead me to believe that perhaps his constant reaffirmations are due to a sense of self-uncertainty, which indeed gives his claims of "not gay" a bit more leeway," Mycroft pauses to gauge Sherlock's reaction so far, finding that it is predictably blank. He takes in a breath and continues, "Unfortunately, sometimes it is that lingering sense of doubt that causes people – but statistically more often, men – to force possible feelings down even further in denial. Which means that John is just as likely to embrace the idea as he is to completely shy away from it."

There is a long beat of silence that follows Mycroft's last statement. Mycroft stares at Sherlock who is deliberately looking out the window, features assembled into an impression of disinterest. Mycroft, ever-observant, notices the telltale twitch of his fingers, which betrays that Sherlock's true feelings.

"Sherlock."

"_I know,_ Mycroft," Sherlock snaps, eyes still fixed unseeingly at the window. "I know I don't have a chance in hell, there's no need to reiterate."

"That is _not_ what I said." Mycroft purses his lips and takes a moment to consider his next words. "Sherlock, I only mean to prepare you for the worst situation. And if I am to be completely honest, John _does_ care about you. Immensely, in fact. I won't pretend to be an expert in the world of emotion, but I can say with utmost certainty that you are just as important to John as he is to you,"

Sherlock blinks once, twice, and finally breaks away from the window to meet his brother's gaze. "Yes?" He asks, uncertainty and hope spilling reluctantly into his voice.

"Yes," Mycroft replies, confidently.

Sherlock nods, though more to himself than his brother, and returns his gaze to the window with a new air of satisfaction. Mycroft, sensing his point has been made, rises from the couch and gathers his umbrella.

Sherlock doesn't walk him to the door or anything as polite, but instead thanks him in an abstract, Sherlockian way that few are granted and even less appreciate. "Your visit was…not wasted, Mycroft. And perhaps you_ have_ lost a bit of weight."

Mycroft doesn't say 'you're welcome' because that would mean acknowledging that it was a 'thank you' in the first place, which Sherlock will most definitely not appreciate, so Mycroft only inclines his head slightly. He turns to leave, umbrella swinging absently at his side.

"Sherlock," says Mycroft over his shoulder, almost like an afterthought. "Do be careful, yes? Keep your reason intact."

Sherlock smiles crookedly at that. "I would, brother, but it appears that this_ loving_ lark is quite resistant to logic," he lifts his gaze and something genuine sparkles in his eyes, something subtle but achingly bright, and Mycroft has never seen anything like it before in Sherlock. If he didn't know better, he'd call it _happiness._

"Caring may not be an advantage, Mycroft, but I am discovering that it is_ certainly_ no burden."

. . .

Exactly twenty-four hours after Mycroft's visit, Sherlock finally has the sense to ask Mrs. Hudson for advice. She wastes no time in telling him that a simple cake and birthday dinner will be perfectly sufficient. Apparently such a celebration is both romantic and comfortable, which she assures him is something John would appreciate.

Plans solidified, the only task that remains is getting John out of the flat long enough for Sherlock to cook up a birthday cake. Mrs. Hudson has kindly taken it upon herself to handle the preparation of dinner and the (tasteful and few!) decorations.

* * *

Sherlock wakens the day of John's birthday with a clear strategy and the kind of single-minded determination that usually only accompanies a particularly fascinating case. He tosses the sheets away, leaps out of bed, and dashes from his room like an eager child bounding towards presents on Christmas day. He has exactly fourteen seamless reasons for John to leave the flat for the several hours that he requires, and he is positively_ bursting _to use one.

"John," he calls, as he sweeps into the kitchen. Sherlock is just about to begin his onslaught of rapidly-spoken brilliance, when his eyes land on a rather peculiar sight: John is not in the kitchen as he usually is, groggily making tea in his robe and slippers with sleep-mussed hair. Instead he is standing before the mirror in the sitting room, adjusting the collar of his sports jacket and muttering several different versions of _"Hello, Laura"_ under his breath.

It does not take a consulting detective to deduce what all of this means. Unconsciously, Sherlock's shoulder slump and the eagerness seeps from his eyes. He knows he should be pleased: obviously no cunning will be necessary because John is going to leave the flat of his own accord. However, he's going to be with _a woman _and _his mates_ in a place that is_ not _the flat and with people that are _not_ Sherlock_. _And_ that_ is a bit not good.

_Stupid, blasted, bloody Laura. _

"Morning," says John, absently. He fiddles with his tie until he deems it sufficiently straight. "I made you some toast and a cup of tea about thirty minutes ago for breakfast; they're sitting in the microwave."

"Well then I certainly cannot eat any of it, that's where I was storing a very toxic petri dish of—"

John glances away from his reflection to give Sherlock a knowing look. "Of Alternaria-riddled tomato slime? Yes, I know. You told me about all of your mold cultures last Tuesday. Naturally, I moved it to the oven and disinfected the microwave before putting your breakfast in there."

"Oh. Yes, well, that's…acceptable," he mumbles, at loss.

But it's actually far more than just 'acceptable'—it's bloody wonderful. Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek and fights the urge to grab John and pull him into an embrace, because John _remembered_ that the moldy tomato goo wasn't just moldy tomato goo and he was_ careful_ about putting it somewhere wise, which is infinitely more than he can usually ask of an ordinary person (though to be fair, John is anything but ordinary).

"I'm sure you've gathered as much, but I'll be going out today. Mike and the lads are taking me to a football game and then a bit of pub-hopping later on," John brushes back a stray gray-blonde hair. "Anyway, Laura may be coming as well, so it's important that I look my best. What do you think?" John turns and faces Sherlock with an expectant brow.

John, for once, is not wearing one of his awful jumpers, which Sherlock finds disappointing. Of course, that is not to say the sports jacket and dark slacks he is currently wearing are not flattering; quite the contrary. He looks bloody gorgeous as usual, with those sparkling blue eyes that have turned dark-navy from the reflection of his jacket, that smartly-styled, gray-blonde hair, and those pleasantly shaped lips that are currently curved into a half-smile. Not to mention how incredibly appealing it is to see John's small, strong frame wrapped up in formal attire, which is such a rarity that the sight in and of itself is a treat. Sherlock is struck with the urge to place his hands on either side of John's face and pull him close into a kiss, so John can feel each word as Sherlock whispers, _"You look exquisite," _against the delicious swell of his bottom lip.

"Do I have something on my face?" John asks, self-consciously.

Sherlock blinks and realizes that he's been staring at John with a blank expression for an entire minute. "You look fine. Good…great—passable, I mean," he manages.

John looks amused and a bit confused, but seems content to let it go. He readjusts the collar of his jacket one final time. "They invited you as well, but I said you had some familial obligations to attend to, so don't worry," he smiles, "I had a feeling you wouldn't fancy a football game or pub setting. We'll do something when I get home tonight; who knows, maybe you'll finally be up for those Bond movies I'm always telling you about."

The idea that John knows him so well makes his heart positively sing. Sherlock much prefers when it's just the two of them rather than some busy, loud crowd of strangers and acquaintances, and he is immeasurably grateful that John is aware of it.

Then, Sherlock realizes something.

"John, I've noticed you've purposefully omitted the reason for all of this celebration. Why?" Sherlock doesn't really need an answer, he knows it's because John thinks he forgot and doesn't want him to feel bad, but part of him is still curious.

John blinks and looks somewhat sheepish. "Well, I didn't know if you realized it's my birthday, and I didn't want it to seem like I was throwing all of this in your face to make you feel guilty for not doing something," he sighs and steps forward, "I just want you to know that I don't care about parties, okay? I'm really only going to this bloody thing to humor my mates. I'll consider whatever simple, comfortable thing we end up doing later the perfect way to spend my birthday, alright?" He grips the sides of Sherlock's arms in emphasis.

Sherlock nods and keeps a cool expression, all the while trying not to focus on the sensation of John's warm, strong fingertips pressing into his bicep.

Sherlock's knee-jerk reaction to John's kind understanding is to attempt to please him even more by admitting that he _did _remember and has indeed planned something. But just as the words are about to leave his lips, he remembers a particular tip Mrs. Hudson gave him: he must pretend that he has nothing planned, so that when the cake and dinner are finally revealed, John will enjoy them even more out of surprise. With this in mind, he says: "You are correct, I haven't prepared anything. Either way, happy birthday, John,"

John grins and brushes an affectionate hand through the curls hanging against Sherlock's forehead in a gesture that _could_ be interpreted as a friendly hair-ruffle, if it wasn't for the fact that John's hand then drops a few inches lower along his cheekbone in-what certainly _feels_ like-a caress. The touch lasts mere seconds before John's hand finds its way back to his side. "You're fantastic, you know?" John beams at him once more before brushing by and heading for the door.

"I'll phone you when I'm on my way back, yeah?"

The door closes and Sherlock numbly raises his hand to his flushed face, fingertips fluttering absently over his now-sacred cheekbone.

* * *

"Sherlock, are you sure you don't want my help with the cake?" Mrs. Hudson asks, as she hands over the rest of the ingredients. They are standing in the threshold of her flat, Sherlock's arms overflowing with baked goods, while Mrs. Hudson eyes him concernedly.

"Yes, I'm quite sure, Mrs. Hudson. You're already preparing the dinner, I couldn't ask for more than that. Also, I'd like to do this bit myself. I'm not entirely sure why I am so insistent on that, but I suppose I shall chalk it up to sentiment."

She smiles in understanding, and places a stick of butter on the growing mound of food in Sherlock's arms, "Yes, dear, it is sentiment. Though I will admit that you are correct in your insistence: the best cakes are often made with a few drops of love."

He frowns and glances down at the items worriedly, "A few drops of 'love'? Is that the name of some type of extract or oil, because if so you appear to have forgotten it—"

A look of amused endearment passes over Mrs. Hudson's face and she shakes her head, "Oh, Sherlock, I don't mean it literally. I only meant that the best birthday cakes – or any cakes in general, really – are the ones made with love in mind. Your John is going to be so pleased to see it once it's done," she beams at him once more, before stepping back inside her flat. "Ring me if you find that you need any help, dear!"

"Yes, I will. Thank you again for the recipe, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock calls from over his shoulder as he walks away.

When he returns to his flat he quickly recognizes that there is a slight problem. Well, actually there a _few_ slight problems, namely the lack of clean cooking space and the significant amount of unhygienic items currently boiling/melting/sitting on the stove and inside the oven.

Sherlock drops the ingredients unceremoniously to the floor, which is ironically the only sanitary area in the entire kitchen. He plucks his mobile from his pocket and briefly considers phoning Mycroft to send someone over to clean his disastrous kitchen, but quickly decides he'd rather not waste his last few shreds of dignity on something so frivolous.

Instead, he sets his features into something like grim acceptance, grabs the unused sponge from the cabinet, and begins the horrendously tedious task of _cleaning._ Of course, he isn't quite sure what 'cleaning' entails, so he sort of just sweeps everything that isn't poisonous, deadly, or 'something that was once within an animal' into the corner to be dealt with later. He wipes over the surface of the dining room table with the sponge, but a chunk of it immediately gets torn off in a mysterious sticky puddle. Annoyed, he stalks over to the sink, wets the sponge, and returns to the table with renewed determination. He _will_ get this bloody table clean. However, after about ten minutes of fruitless scrubbing, he realizes that even if he soaked the entire thing in ammonia, toxic residue would still dapple its surface. In other words: it's a lost cause. Sherlock turns it on its side and pushes it against the wall.

The oven and microwave are a bit easier, because he can use common household products to disinfect them rather than the heavy-duty acids the table requires. As he swipes a soapy dishrag along the exterior of the microwave, he hums the tune to "Happy Birthday" under his breath. Earlier today, he was forced to YouTube it, since he deleted the song from his mind palace ages ago. Now, memory renewed, he focuses on perfecting the pitches and tones of the song in preparation for tonight. He continues singing softly as he scrubs the dried plasma from the stovetop. All is well until his voice falters on the "to you" bit. He freezes and his eyes widen. He immediately drops the rag and dashes into the sitting room to phone Mrs. Hudson.

"Hel—"

"Mrs. Hudson I need you to tell me which pitch I am incorrectly singing on the first verse of the "Happy Birthday" song because I fear I am using F-minor when in reality the tune demands _C-_minor and—"

"Sherlock!" She cries, "Dear, why are you putting yourself in such a tizzy over this?"

"Because, Mrs. Hudson, this must go perfectly! Remember what I told you last week?" He demands, not caring in the slightest that he sounds desperate.

"Yes, dear," she says patiently, "You said you are in love with John and you want this little celebration to show him that. I understand how much you want this to be perfect, and _it will be_, whether or not you sing the correct pitches in his birthday song. John will adore anything you do, Sherlock. You're _fine."_

By the time she has finished talking, he feels decidedly calmer than before. He takes a deep breath. Yes, Mrs. Hudson does have a point, John will probably like the party regardless of his singing abilities. John is sentimental like that.

"Okay. Yes, you're right. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

She chuckles warmly. "Alright now get back to cleaning that kitchen, young man! I've seen the state of it and you have some work to do."

Relieved, he sets the phone down and strides back into the kitchen.

As he is finishing up the last of the dirty dishes, it occurs to him that his earlier actions have just proved Mycroft's warning about 'love turning smart men simple' correct. Prior to 'being in love', he would have never so much as humored the idea of panicking over something as inconsequential as an incorrect pitch in a song. He certainly wouldn't have phoned his Landlady about it.

And yet, here he is.

He supposes love is just one of those annoying things that demands endless struggle and sacrifice and in return offers a very small bit of something wonderful. Putting the ridiculousness of it aside, he stands by what he told Mycroft: love is no burden.

And speaking of burdens, it is now time to remove the layer of coagulated blood from the crisper.

* * *

As Sherlock mixes in another cup of flour, he scoffs to himself at all those that have claimed baking is a challenge. Ha! It's just chemistry with food instead of deadly compounds, plus one doesn't even need to figure out how much of each ingredient to add since the instructions are already created by someone else! To make it any easier would be an insult to mankind's collective intelligence.

Sherlock recalls watching his mother cook as a child: she was the kind of person that shone brightest in the kitchen; it was where she truly came to life. She would hum a tune and spin on her heel and dance her way over to the cupboards, using salt shakers as maracas and the broom as her partner. She often attempted to share her love for food with Sherlock, but it was to no avail since his interests were in deductions, data, and chemical compounds, not whipped meringue and saffron-dusted Bouillabaisse. Mycroft on the other hand completely immersed himself in cooking—and eating, Sherlock notes—up until the age of fourteen, when their father died. Sherlock had just turned seven at the time. He remembers strangers in dark clothing milling through their house, mumbling words of condolence to his mother and casting looks of pity and him and Mycroft. Some of them even had the gall to pat his head and say things like, "Atticus is going away for a little while, Sherlock" as if he were a simple fool that didn't understand the concept and finality of death.

Sherlock's memories of Atticus are sparse and a bit blurred around the edges due to the short time that he had known him, but Sherlock knows without doubt that he cared for him greatly. Atticus had always been a very intelligent, quiet man that spoke only when he felt something truly needed to be said; which of course was not to say he did not have a large capacity to love, because he_ did_. He never said those three words to any of them, but he always showed it by tasting one of his wife's dishes and then beaming as if it were gold, or playing a lengthy chess game with Mycroft in the peaceful firelight of the drawing room, or sitting on Sherlock's bed and patiently listening to him explain each step of his experiment. That is why Sherlock adored his father so much: he didn't need to talk endlessly in order to_ say_ something.

Sherlock decided long ago that he'd like to achieve that silent grace someday. He hopes that he too can learn the art of saying _I love you _without bothering with actual words. In fact, that is what the desired effect of this cake is: to show John how he feels without verbally saying it. Sherlock supposes this is as good a start as any.

With the batter now thoroughly mixed and fluffy, he moves on to the icing. Mrs. Hudson warned him that making icing from scratch is very difficult—even for her—because it often comes out either too watery or too thick. She'd handed him a tin of a store bought brand and given him a meaningful look. "Here, this'll do just _fine_, Sherlock. No need to bother with making it from scratch."

Hm.

Sherlock looks at the tin for a few seconds and then immediately sweeps it off the counter. If she really did not want him making his own, she should not have made it sound like such a tantalizing challenge.

Besides, how difficult can it be to make some sodding icing?

. . .

_Very_ difficult, as it turns out.

It isn't until he is surrounded by several bowls filled with frostings of varying viscosities—half of which are gummed in his hair—that he admits to himself perhaps Mrs. Hudson had a point.

Just as she predicted, each batch of icing is either too runny or too clotted, and whenever Sherlock attempts to thicken them with flour or thin them with water, they just become terrible, lumpy messes. After a quick survey of each, Bowl Number Three most resembles edible material so he decides to put his remaining efforts into salvaging it.

At the moment it is a rather unpleasant bile-green color, from when he added food dye in hopes of making the sludge more visibly appealing. Annoyed, he lifts the small bottle of coloring and glares at the label; "Bright Spring-Green" his _arse._

He is just about to add another spoonful of salt to the mixture, when his mobile buzzes. His fingers are sticky and stained green, but it hardly matters since the rest of him is too, so he pats down the pockets of his expensive trousers heedless of the mess. Unfortunately, it turns out he has left his phone on top of the microwave, which means abandoning Bowl Number Three for a moment. Reluctantly, he hastily mixes in the salt and then dashes to his mobile which is still buzzing rather insistently, signifying that it is a call rather than text.

"Hello?" he asks, the screen sticking unpleasantly to his sugar-coated cheek.

"Sherlock!" John shouts. It is very loud in the background-voices, shouting, the occasional cheer and holler-so Sherlock suspects he is at a pub. "Listen, I'm heading home in a bit, do you need anything from the shops? I'm stopping there on—"

Panicked, Sherlock cuts him off, eyes wildly darting around disastrous kitchen scene. "John. Listen to me: _do not come home yet."_

"…Why not?" John asks, warily.

"Because I am…I am—I'm—uh—just…" Any words would be great right now, any words at all. "Experimenting!" He exclaims, relieved to have chosen something believable. "Yes, yes the flat is in a dreadful state,"—not a lie—"and you really shouldn't come back just yet. Go to more pubs, take your time at Tesco. Whatever. Just don't come home yet."

John groans. "_Sherlock_. What. Have. You. Done. To. My. Flat."

Sherlock decides against pointing out that technically it's_ their_ flat. He clears his throat and makes his voice sound as calm and collected as possible. "It will be utterly spotless when you return, John, I guarantee it. Let's see, it's five right now, so…yes, you can return at exactly half past eight."

"Three and half hours, Sherlock?" John asks, his voice taking on that shrill pitch it gets when he's becoming agitated. "What could you have possible done to—actually, I don't want to know." He lets out a long breath that Sherlock suspects is for the sake of lowering his towering blood pressure. "Fine—fine, I'll see you then."

"Yes. Bye, John!" Sherlock says, brightly. He hangs up and then lets his arm fall limply to his side. That was a bloody close one. It would have rather ruined the surprise if John came home and found globs of butter on the ceiling and green icing covering every horizontal surface.

When he returns to his place at the counter he finds that a terrible fate has befallen Bowl Number Three, if the swamp-colored chunks floating through it like glaciers are any indication. Apparently adding more salt was not the best plan. With a world weary sigh, he dumps the concoction into the disposal, knowing full well the sink will become clogged and useless within the week because of it. He must remember to comb the phonebook for a good plumber.

With as much dignity as the situation allows, he stoops down and plucks the store brand icing from the floor. He glares at it and mutters, "This'll do."

If it were not inanimate, Sherlock imagines that it would look quite smug.

* * *

"Candles?"

"Yes, dear."

"But not the single ones, right? You got the generic six pack, correct? Because John will feel old if we use thirty-eight candles on his cake."

"I bought the six-pack, dear."

"What if he doesn't like the cake?"

"He will."

"What if he is upset by the color of balloons—you know he _did _once frown at a woman wearing all yellow…perhaps that signifies his distaste for the color? God, I'm a fool, he's going to hate this because yellow is his least favorite color."

"It isn't and he won't, dear."

"What if he is allergic to something in the food?"

Mrs. Hudson gives him a patient smile and grips his hand. "Sherlock. First of all, I doubt he has an allergy you are unaware of. Secondly, there is no need to worry! The cake came out lovely, the kitchen is spotless, and dinner will be more than satisfactory. As for the balloons, I'm sure John will not mind that they're yellow; in fact, I believe we once discussed our fondness for the color when I asked him which shade my sister should paint her bathroom. Everything will go wonderfully, dear. Stop fretting."

Sherlock nods and relaxes fractionally. The two of them are currently sitting at the kitchen table—Mrs. Hudson had the good idea of layering a few decorative runners over it to cover the acid stains— surrounded by yellow balloons and blue streamers, with John's birthday dinner spread out before them like a feast. Mrs. Hudson certainly has outdone herself. Unfortunately, Mrs. Hudson has also insisted that it will not be a proper surprise party unless they wear cheap, cardboard cones—er, _party hats_—and wait in the dark for John's arrival.

Sherlock drums his fingers on the table. "Are you sure we need the lights off? This feels more like an ambush than a party."

"Of course! Shouting 'surprise' and flicking on the lights is nearly the best part!"

Sherlock begins shaking his leg impatiently. He pulls out his mobile and glances at the time. It's three minutes past eight-thirty. John should've walked through the door one hundred and eighty seconds ago.

**_Sent at: 8:33pm _**

_John, come home at once. Right now. Right this second. SH_

Then, so as not to arouse suspicion:

**_Sent at: 8:34pm_**

_Not that there's anything here for you, of course. Just a regular dull night at Baker Street. No rush. SH_

He places his phone face down on the table and demonstrates remarkable patience for the entirety of a minute.

**_Sent at: 8:35pm_**

_I take that back. Do rush. SH _

Sherlock is just about to insist they leave the flat and track down John themselves since this is taking far too long, when he hears the sound of the doorknob jiggling. Mrs. Hudson giggles and whispers "On the count of three. One…two…"

The door creaks open. "Three!"

Sherlock jumps from his seat so quickly his knees knock the underside of the table. He hastily recovers and scrambles to turn on the light. "Surprise! Happy—"

But the words die on his lips the instance he registers the sight before him. John and some woman are intertwined like vines, clearly just caught in the middle of a snog—red lips, flushed faces, guilty expressions—and apparently under the impression that they were going to have the flat to themselves.

The sound of his heartbeat pounds in his ears. He is dimly aware of Mrs. Hudson saying "Oh dear."

The woman disentangles herself and looks bewilderedly at Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, then back at John. "Er—who are these people, John?"

"My…my flat mate and my landlady," he says slowly. He clears his throat and straightens his jacket. "Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, this is Laura. My girlfriend."

A blinding surge of anger and dejection slam into Sherlock like a truck. Is it possible for emotions to translate into physical pain? Because if so, that might explain the sudden ache in his chest.

When no explanation is forthcoming, John looks to Sherlock, wordlessly asking for an answer. Sherlock pointedly looks down at the mishmash of runners on the table. John blinks uncomprehendingly at the scene before him, eyes finally settling on Sherlock's crooked party hat. Genuinely confused, he asks, "What is this?"

Mrs. Hudson clears her throat. "Sherlock planned a—"

"No." Sherlock interrupts. He looks back up at John with a mask of indifference firmly in place. Dully, he says, "It is nothing." He turns slowly on his heel and meets Mrs. Hudson's wide-eyed, sympathetic expression without as much as a blink. With great deliberation, he pulls the party hat from his head and sets it carefully on the table. He doesn't care, he isn't upset. He most certainly is not hurt. If his eyes look especially glossy, it's because of allergies, _alright?_

He mutters, "Good night," and begins to head in the direction of his room, when he feels John's hand close around his forearm.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, you don't just get to stalk off to your room. Please explain what all of this is, Sherlock."

Laura stands a few feet back, looking extremely uncomfortable. "John, maybe I should go…"

Sherlock looks at her over John's head and feels something inside him suddenly snap. "Yes! Perhaps you should! There's no doubt those designer heels you shoplifted yesterday are starting to grow a bit uncomfortable, better run back to your dodgy flat and take them off!"

She blinks twice then immediately flees from the flat. John calls her name and follows after her. Mrs. Hudson rises from her chair and places a soothing hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm going to let you two have it out, alright dear? Call me or knock on my door if you need anything."

Sherlock says nothing, he just keeps his eyes fixated on the floor, his body as stiff as a statue.

Mrs. Hudson sighs. "Don't worry dear, everything will be alright. To be quite honest, I doubt that girl is going to last very long. When John comes back up, just remember that you're both human and misunderstandings come with the territory. Don't look so down, dear, things will work out." She kisses his cheek and then leaves the flat.

Sherlock does not move a single inch until John comes thundering back up the stairs five minutes later, muttering and cursing like a sailor.

He storms inside and stops when he is ten inches before Sherlock. "Sherlock, why the_ hell _did you just do that?"

Sherlock grits his teeth and says nothing.

"Hm? She did nothing and you completely snapped at her!"

John's anger sparks Sherlock's like a cinder in a field of hay. Something hot and fiery boils in Sherlock's stomach and his heart slams into his ribs even more painfully than before. "Why the _hell _did you bring her here, John? Why didn't you just come home at eight-thirty like I asked—by yourself? Now you've gone and ruined it!"

"Wha—what do you mean I've ruined it!? I wasn't even aware there was an "it" to be ruined—"

"That's rather the point of a surprise party, John!" Sherlock cries, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"You didn't say…you…" The anger saps from John's tone as he registers Sherlock's words. There is a very long pause in which John soundlessly opens and closes his mouth and Sherlock clenches his jaw. When John speaks again, he sounds more stunned than anything. "Sherlock, I thought you were just going to work on an experiment all night since you said that's what you'd been occupied with all day. I…I didn't think you had planned anything. I brought Laura because she's always complaining that we don't spend enough time together and I figured just having a night in watching telly or something would be nice."

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest, more for the sake of hugging himself than looking defiant. "John, you said you were going to free up your night for the two of us. I even rented those ridiculous James Bond movies to watch later."

John raises his eyebrows and his features immediately soften. "Really?"

Sherlock purses his lips and stares at the ceiling, rocking on his heels. "Yes. Really."

John swallows and looks around the kitchen, finally noticing the balloons in the corner, the haphazard streamers hanging from the light above the kitchen table, the spread of food, and the cake decorated with six blue candles. "You did this," John says weakly. "You planned a whole surprise party for me and I just ruined it."

Sherlock just shrugs, eyes stubbornly fixated on floor.

But when John speaks again, he sounds so utterly distressed that Sherlock almost wants to be the one comforting John, rather than the other way around. "I am so, _so _sorry, Sherlock. I just…I had no idea. I wouldn't have brought Laura if I knew you were planning something. This is incredible, it's really bloody incredible. I don't know what else to say." John rubs the back of his neck and meets Sherlock's gaze, looking painfully apologetic. "I've made an arse of myself, haven't I?" He doesn't wait for a response. "Yes, yes I have, and I am very sorry. This was extremely thoughtful. _Thank you_."

Sherlock has already been persuaded out of his bad mood by the time John finishes talking, but his sprits soar even higher when John closes the distance between them with an embrace. It isn't quite like their hugs in the past—which have been few and far between—because instead of John gruffly patting his back and then releasing him, John squeezes their bodies flush together and nestles his face in Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock vaguely recalls a saying about gift horse's mouths and decides not to question this. Instead of hugging John around the shoulders, he boldly encircles John's waist and pulls him close. The smell of cinnamon tickles Sherlock's nose. It seems to go on for several blissful decades before John finally pulls away, grinning.

"So, you baked a cake, did you?" John asks, eyeing the spread of food with a smile. "Never pegged you as a cook, but judging by how delicious that looks, I suppose I was wrong."

Sherlock glows under the praise and modestly replies, "It came out fairly well, I admit."

John pulls out a chair and sits down. When Sherlock doesn't immediately join him, he rolls his eyes. "Come on you great git, I don't plan to tuck in while you just watch." He stops grinning as a thought occurs to him, "Actually, I'm going to pop over to Mrs. Hudson's first and apologize, then invite her over. This meal looks absolutely mouthwatering and she definitely deserves to take part in it. Be back in a mo'!"

After John leaves, Sherlock pulls out a chair and practically melts into it, his bones and blood thrumming like plucked violin strings. The memory of John wrapped in his arms is still so vivid that he can practically feel John's hair brushing the underside of his chin, the smell of cinnamon shrouding his senses like a pleasant fog. He decides against pondering John's relationship with Laura because such a complex subject requires far more deliberation and thought than he is currently willing to give. Besides, it _is_ rather telling that of the two of them, John flocked to Sherlock—despite being angry with him—instead of his allegedly _adoring _girlfriend. Additionally, John is rather opposed to kleptomaniacs, so it's only a matter of time before that moral conflict crops up.

Feeling slightly reassured, Sherlock begins to cut John a slice of cake.

He's fine, things are going to be just fine. Laura will evaporate into the air like so many others before her and John will once again happily spend all of his time with Sherlock. John has had many girlfriends in the past that have come and gone along with the seasons and passing holidays, so why should this one be any different? Sherlock thinks back to Mrs. Hudson words from earlier_: "To be quite honest, I doubt that girl is going to last very long." _Perhaps it's only because he desperately wants it to be true, but Sherlock can't help but notice that all of the facts certainly do point to this conclusion.

And besides: when has Mrs. Hudson ever been wrong?

* * *

**IMPORTANT MESSAGE:**

**Hey guys! So, first I'll thank anyone who has commented/criticized because you've honestly been what's kept me so focused on this story. However, I have a request for the rest of you lovely readers: share your thoughts on the story! As an author it's very helpful to know if the readers like the direction things are going or have suggestions/constructive criticism they'd like to offer.**

**And to be honest, I'm figuring this story out as I go, so I am very open to suggestions.**

**So from now on, please help me out by answering some (if not all) of these Q's:**

**-Would you guys prefer frequent updates but shorter chapters or less frequent updates with longer chapters (what I'm currently doing)?**

**-Any particular scenes/tropes you'd like to see? (For example: "Caretaker!John scene where Sherlock is hurt" or, I don't know, "John finds out about Sherlock's passion for dancing—Johnlock slow dance ensues" or something like that. I can't guarantee I'll use it, but the input would be tremendously helpful.**

**-Any character interactions you'd like to see? I already plan on some more Sherlolly friendship scenes and plenty of Mycroft/Sherlock interactions. (For example: " John and Harry, Lestrade and Mycroft, Mycroft and John" etc etc etc**

**-Side ships you'd like to see? (I'm not partial to anything right now, so I'm very open to suggestions. Obviously Johnlock is the main ship, so pick something else! :) Example: Mystrade, Lestrolly, Molly/OC, Mycroft/OC etc**

**-What do you like about this story (whether it is the plot, my writing style, the characterizations, etc, criticize away) and what do you think I can improve on? (tbh the latter half of this question is way more important! Concrit is necessary for improvement!)**

**Side note: Just fyi I plan on really drawing this story out—don't worry Johnlock is still endgame—because to me, the journey is the best part, not the destination. :)**

**Though, I can tell you that there may or may not be a particularly interesting scene coming up soon-ish. *coughcoughJohnlockkisscough***

**Okay, thank you so much! Until next time, darlings! X0X0**


	5. Cuddles and Caretaking

**A/N: Hey guys! So first I'd just like to thank all of you that took the time to review and give me feedback, because it has helped me immensely in writing this chapter and mapping out the entire story. From now on, updates will be weekly: every Sunday. I thought about shortening the word count since the updates will be more regular, but I ended up writing my usual 8.5k anyway. So, yay! Frequent updates and high word count! :D It was my intention to upload this yesterday, but life happened and I couldn't, so here we are! Hopefully this lovely, mega-fluffy, cuddle-filled chapter will make up for it.**

**Enjoy! :)**

* * *

_"__Sherlock."_

"John, just a minute more and we've got him! Patience." Sherlock says insistently.

"It's cold," John snaps in response, pulling his jacket tighter around him.

The two of them are currently huddled behind several trash bins in an alleyway, staring at a flat building across the street and waiting for a man named Augustus Lloyd to approach the front door. Meanwhile, John is complaining and shivering as if they are in the Arctic Tundra instead of an alley on Ralor Street. Admittedly, the air is a bit chill and the damp floor beneath them is less than comfortable, but all of that is hardly relevant when they are mere minutes from detaining a drug lord.

In Sherlock's opinion, the most thrilling part of this stakeout is the deafening anticipation of apprehending the leader of a drug cartel. Adrenaline laced with excitement roars in his ears and sets his nerve endings ablaze. His mouth is practically twitching with the urge to open wide and spew the hundreds of deductions he's made about this case from the sparse information they found in files alone. Looking through the documents the Yard had collected on the this man—Mr. Lloyd—was surprisingly enlightening, but he'd forced himself to hold onto his brilliant torrent of deductions until the actual apprehension of the drug lord was about to take place. Now, with mere minutes standing between that moment and the present, he can barely contain himself.

However, John does not seem to share the excitement. John would rather worry himself with something as mundane as_ weather_ rather than the deliciously intriguing case splayed out before them like a Christmas feast.

"Sherlock, it's bloody freezing and we've been out here for two hours now!"

Sherlock huffs and unthinkingly throws his arm around John's shoulders, pulling John underneath his coat and flush against his body. "There. Warmth. Now hush up." His voice comes out sounding quite typical in its impatience and absentmindedness, which Sherlock finds very impressive considering the internal chaos that immediately breaks out the moment John touches him.

John begrudgingly huddles further into him and stops complaining, which pleases Sherlock immensely.

A rather innocuous-looking mailman parks his truck and emerges with a package. To the uninformed eye he is a mere civil servant taking the late shift to dutifully deliver a parcel—but Sherlock knows better. This man is none other than one of London's biggest drug lords. Sherlock grins, adrenaline coursing through his veins at the prospect wrapping up this case.

"John, in exactly four and a half minutes that man—tall, bearded, and a bit spindly—will walk up to the front door holding what appears to be a package from a relative—he's even gone through the trouble of covering it with all kinds of silly, trite stamps only a loved one would use—and he will place it on the porch after knocking a message in Morse code on the door. Obviously that package contains a variety of narcotics, and the bearded man is none other than the infamous drugs dealer, Augustus Lloyd. If you were wondering, which I am sure you were, I figured out the Morse code bit by sifting through his files and phone history and noticing that despite his frequent correspondence with Pete Carson—a drug connoisseur, if you will, and his current customer—there were little to no actual written words between the two. Many of his habits and tendencies lean towards 'old fashioned' even though he is quite young, so one could only reasonably draw the conclusion that they would use lights, knocking, or any other form of Morse to communicate with each other.

"The message will be a number: the amount of drugs in the aforementioned package and a date which I assume will be a deadline for his payment. This man that we are dealing with is widely sought, well-known, and impeccably guarded most of the time—he typically surrounds himself with several armed men to protect him. Not too surprising if you work in the drugs business—addicts can be messy, desperate things when they're starving for a fix. However we are privy to a rare opportunity; he is currently quite vulnerable as this particular drug exchange is one he thought would be kept very tightly under wraps and wouldn't necessitate body guards. Now that we have him right where we want him we will have the brilliant opportunity to finally capture him and begin the slow process of tearing down his drug empire brick by brick—"

John turns away to cough into the crook of his elbow, the sound rattling and low. Sherlock falls dead silent and turns to stare at him with wide, owlish eyes. After John recovers moments later, he clears his throat and rasps, "Sorry, you were say—"

"No." Sherlock snaps, immediately transitioning from excited to completely sober. "No, that's unimportant now. Why didn't you tell me you were sick? We've been sitting out here in sodding freezing weather on an alley floor covered in germs and you're_ sick,_ John!"

John stares back at him, completely thrown by his reaction. "Wha—you said the weather was irrelevant not twenty minutes ago! Why are you worrying over it now?"

"Because, John, you are _sick_. I didn't know you were ill when I said the weather was irrelevant, alright? It is most certainly not irrelevant anymore."

John starts to reply, but another cough interrupts him and he is forced to once again turn away and hack into his jacket sleeve. Once the painful-sounding onslaught comes to a gasping, breathless end, John runs his hands over his face and blows air out of his mouth in defeat. "Right, yes, I may have a cold."

Without intending to, Sherlock squeezes John closer to him, his gloved hand resting securely at John's waist. "Phone," demands Sherlock.

"What?"

"My phone, I gave it to you, remember? You borrowed it to text someone before we left and I insisted you just hold onto it."

John removes the mobile from his pocket and hands it to Sherlock. "Okay, fine, but why?"

**_Sent at 10:15pm_**

_Lestrade, John is sick. The address is 385C Ralor Street. Arrest Lloyd and his customer. His only weapon is a crowbar and his truck is filled with around fifty-thousand pounds worth of Cocaine. This should be easy enough even for you lot. SH_

"Come now, John." Sherlock says, rising from his crouched positon. He makes sure to keep his fingertips brushing John's shoulder as John stands, partially to ensure he'll be there to catch John should he fall and partially out of the simple desire to maintain contact.

"We're going after him now? I thought you said in four minutes?"

Sherlock adjusts the collar of his coat and ushers John out of the alleyway and onto the pavement. "I texted Lestrade, the Yard can handle it. We're going home."

"_What?"_ exclaims John. "You haven't shut up about this case for three days—why are we leaving before we've caught him? There's hardly anything left to do before this whole thing is wrapped up I'm sure whatever it is you're running to can wait."

"It can't," replies Sherlock succinctly.

"Wha—"

John doesn't have a chance to finish because Sherlock immediately cuts him off by hailing a cab and pulling him inside. Without thinking, he tugs John close to his side, absently rubbing his arms to keep him warm.

"221B Baker Street," he tells the cabbie. John resumes his protesting but Sherlock tunes it out in favor of the frantic, upset thoughts running rampant through his mind.

God—he is such a bloody fool, how had he not noticed John was sick? Yes, admittedly the case was rather engrossing so it isn't too surprising that all else faded into white noise, but surely he should have remained adept enough to realize that John wasn't just complaining for the sake of complaining, he was doing so because he was _sick._ Sherlock should have paid attention to the sniffles and the coughing and all other signs that clearly pointed to his illness.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell happened back there that made you want to leave?" John asks, sounding both exasperated and confused.

Sherlock exhales noisily and tightens his grip on John, which John either hasn't noticed or is choosing to ignore. "You are sick, John," he says slowly. "Sitting out there any longer would risk worsening your condition."

"It's just a cold, Sherlock! I'm fine, okay?"

"You're sick."

"But the case!"

Sherlock resolutely looks ahead. "The Yard can handle the arrest just fine. Like you said, the case was pretty much wrapped up already. I doubt even they could muck it up."

When the cab stops in front of their building, Sherlock tugs John from his seat by the material of his sleeve. "Come on, you need to get out of these clothes. They're all wet and cold."

John gives him an annoyed look. Then he glances back at the waiting driver. "Are you going to pay the cabbie or shall I?"

Sherlock huffs an annoyed breath and calls over his shoulder, "Familia supra Omnia."

The cabbie nods once then drives off. John turns to stare at Sherlock in bewilderment. "So, are random Latin phrases and money suddenly interchangeable?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and marches up the steps to unlock the front door. "Of course not. It is simply a code that Mycroft has given me should I ever require something without having the money to get it. But," he says with a grin, flashing his generously filled wallet, "sometimes it's fun to use just because."

"What does that phrase mean?"

"'Family over everything'" Sherlock deadpans. "How achingly sentimental of him."

As they walk up the steps to their flat, John still seems a bit puzzled about their arrangement. "So you mean to say that works with more than just cabs? You could just waltz into a shop and say some random Latin phrase, and everything would be free?"

Sherlock snorts and pushes open the door. "Hardly. It only works in certain establishments; the cab services of London happen to be one such establishment. Of course, he changes the phrase every day so that some random stranger couldn't use it to his advantage should he overhear me. But, that is unimportant. What is important is you going to bed. Goodnight."

"I'm a grown man, Sherlock, I don't need you to tell me when my bed time is."

Sherlock makes an annoyed sound and sweeps into the kitchen, hands busily shuffling through the cabinets in search of tea bags. "Fine. I won't tell you anything. I will however give you this very considerately prepared cup of chamomile tea that you would be rude to refuse."

John sighs and collapses into his chair. "Fine. Why are you so concerned, though? Surely you know I'm in no life threatening condition right now."

"Of course I know that," Sherlock replies from inside the kitchen. "But right now your body is weakened and therefore susceptible to viruses far less benevolent than a simple cold. I'd rather not risk you getting any sicker."

He can't see John's expression, but from his tone he can tell that is fairly surprised by Sherlock's concern. "Well…thanks. For looking out for me, I mean."

He makes a noncommittal sound in response and busies himself with making tea. It's actually a bit relaxing, so he can almost understand why John enjoys preparing it so regularly. Once the hot water has been poured into cups, the tea bags steeping, and milk and sugar have been added to their respective drinks, he carries the tray into the sitting room. "Drink up."

John smiles and takes the cup from the tray, breathing in the sweet steam for a moment before taking a sip. "Mm, this is quite good actually." John eyes him over the brim of his cup. "Perhaps you ought to do this more often."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his own tea, reasonably pleased with the flavor. "Yours tastes much better," says Sherlock honestly. "Mine is a bit too perfect, I believe. Too precisely calculated. Tea is apparently suited for imperfection."

John grins. "So you're perfect and I'm not?"

Sherlock returns the smile and nods. "Oh, yes. But I find that your imperfection has its own kind of flawlessness. I like it."

John's smile grows into something lovely and warm, crinkling the corners of his eyes and setting his dark blue irises alight. He doesn't say anything and neither does Sherlock, but they share the comfortable silence in peace, occasionally drinking their tea and exchanging warm glances.

Something delightful and feathery twists inside Sherlock's chest, and if he didn't know better he might even call it happiness. Quiet, content, happiness.

Eventually John rises to go to bed and Sherlock lets him, wondering in the back of his mind if his symptoms will worsen or improve in the morning. Judging by his rattling cough alone, he suppose they will have to get worse before they get better and disappear entirely. Knowing John will have difficulty falling asleep—due to the resurfacing migraine and ache in his chest from coughing—Sherlock stays downstairs and plays him a slow, sleepy ballad on his violin. He doesn't stop until he is certain John has dozed off, hours later.

* * *

The next morning, John ambles out of his room looking at bit like those undead creatures from a movie he'd once been coerced into watching (John had insisted it would be absolutely terrifying, but the entire premise was so unrealistic that it moved Sherlock to do little other than scoff).

Within about ten seconds of seeing him, Sherlock deduces that his 'cold' was actually an influenza virus in its early stages. John clearly intends to go to the clinic, which is ridiculous, but Sherlock decides he'd best stay quiet for the moment because John will most likely not react well to Sherlock telling him to get back in bed.

He continues to wordlessly examine his mold spores through his microscope while John stumbles around the sitting room, mumbling about a lost shoe. He says nothing when John puts his tie on lopsided and buttons his shirt too high, exposing about two inches of his abdomen. He even bites his tongue while John 'makes breakfast' in the manner of a blind, drunken person, only intervening when John puts two Tupperware lids in the toaster and nearly burns their kitchen down.

"You alright there, John," Sherlock asks, though neither his intent nor tone poses it as a question. The answer is already quite obvious.

"Mm, just peachy," he rasps, his voice scratchy and low from coughing all morning. "Well, off to work."

"You have the flu, John. You're not going to work." Sherlock announces absently, far too engrossed in his examination of spores to humor John's ridiculous antics. Of course he's staying home. There's no use in arguing over it.

"It's just a little cold, Sherlock. Hardly a reason to stay home," John assures. He walks over to the coatrack, pulls on his jacket, grabs his keys—and then promptly turns around and empties the contents of his stomach inside a potted plant, invalidating any possible claims of good health.

"John!" Sherlock leaps up, sending his precious mold cultures flying in all directions. He temporarily pushes his worry (for the spores) aside in favor of a bigger and more important worry (for John). He's at John's side in seconds, hooking his arms underneath the other man's armpits and helping him stand properly.

"I'm fine, Sherlock, I'm fine!" John insists, swaying slighting on his feet. "Let go!" After receiving several indignant swats for his troubles, Sherlock finally releases John so he can stand unsupported. John puts his hand against the wall to steady himself, aiming for a casual leaning pose and missing it entirely.

John clears his throat and repeats, "I'm fine."

"I believe that plant would beg to differ," replies Sherlock evenly.

"I _need_ to go to work," insists John.

"No, you _need_ to stay home," Sherlock corrects. "You're not going to work."

"Sherlock, I am a doctor I know when I need to—"

"John." Sherlock interrupts, "Are you telling me that vomiting into a plant is something normal and unremarkable?"

"No, but—"

"Right, and are you telling me that it does not indicate sickness?"

"Well, it does but—"

"Thought so. If I just vomited into that plant would you let me run off on a case?"

"Of course not but—"

"Precisely. Then there's one mystery solved: You are sick and therefore staying home."

"But—"

"But nothing. Please get back in bed."

"And if I don't?"

Sherlock flares his nostrils and stares up at the ceiling. _Why_ is John being so difficult? "Then I shall be forced to carry you there. I have no qualms about man-handling you, so do not think I am bluffing."

_Oh, if only John knew how true that was_, murmurs a wry voice that sounds irritatingly like Mycroft. _Shut up,_ Sherlock thinks. He absolutely does not have the time to daydream about…manhandling John.

John sighs testily. "Sherlock, I appreciate the concern, I really do, but I can't afford to miss another day of work, okay? And don't worry about me being contagious, I don't plan on taking any patients today, just paperwork. I'm sure you've forgotten or deleted this or whatever, but we have to pay bills and rent to live here, and I can't very well accomplish either if I fail to show up at my job."

A brief spark of panic surges through Sherlock's chest. Yes, it's just the flu right now, but this can easily progress into a much graver, possibly fatal illness if it is not dealt with properly, and there is absolutely no way Sherlock is going to allow even the slightest chance of John's condition worsening if he can help it.

"John. Bed."

John opens his mouth to argue, but Sherlock doesn't give him the chance because he immediately takes advantage of John's unsteady stance and sweeps him up in his arms. Carrying John bridal style, he begins marching him upstairs to his room. Initially, It's not too difficult because John goes limp in disbelief—apparently he hadn't trusted Sherlock when he said he wasn't bluffing—but the task becomes considerably more challenging when the shock wears off and he begins protesting, both physically and verbally. Despite his small stature John is actually rather strong; the only reason Sherlock manages to hold onto him is because the flu has weakened what would normally be some very painful swats.

"Let me down! What the hell are you—_how?"_ John cries, dumbfounded, still batting uselessly at Sherlock's arms. Sherlock pointedly ignores him. "How are you…how are you able to carry me?"

"You're petite," replies Sherlock nonchalantly. It takes every ounce of self-control to suppress the smile threatening to take over his face. He's well aware that John—tough soldier, competent doctor, and unshakable flat mate—will not appreciate being called 'petite' because of the feminine connotations, but in truth Sherlock finds that it is the only word that correctly expresses his delightful smallness. The only other word he can think of that has a similar meaning is far too distasteful and juvenile—cute—so this'll do. Petite. Yes, it has a lovely ring to it.

"_What_ did you just call me?" John asks, indignation coloring his features.

Sherlock clears his throat and bites down another smile. "I said, I'm stronger than I look."

John knows this is a lie, but he doesn't seem too inclined to hear the word 'petite' again, so he just nods. "I don't suppose there's a chance you'll let me walk the rest of the way up myself?"

"I don't suppose there is," replies Sherlock, heaving the two of them up yet another step. Christ, has the staircase to John's room always been this long?

"Sherlock—"

"You can barely stand, let alone hike up a flight of stairs. We're almost there, so hush up."

John ignores him. "I really don't understand why you're carrying me like we just got bloody married and this is our honeymoon."

"Would you rather I tossed you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes? We've still got a considerable amount of steps left, I can always change positions if you like."

John grunts out a negative response and after a moment his body relaxes in resignation. He sighs tiredly and carefully rests his head against the junction of Sherlock's neck and shoulder. "If you tell anyone that you carried me like this I will deny it till I'm blue in the face, understand?"

"Indeed."

"Wouldn't do great things for the "Intimidating army doctor" image I have going, you know."

"Quite."

John huffs a tired laugh and allows his head to drop entirely against Sherlock's shoulder, his eyelids drooping. "Mm, thank you, though. I don't believe I was in any state to walk up the stairs."

Sherlock snorts. "Of course not. And there you were, ready to go to work. You know, doctors really are the worst patients, always assuming they're the exception to ailments that they'd easily recognize in a patient but refuse to acknowledge in themselves."

John chuckles into his shoulder, but the material of Sherlock's dressing gown muffles the sound. "You're not exactly a joy to tend to when you're sick either, just so you know."

Sherlock sniffs indignantly. "I know for a fact I've only been ill twice in the time that you've known me."

"Ah, yes, but those two times were right nightmares," says John, without malice. His eyes are bright with amusement and fondness. "You didn't eat the chicken soup, flat out refused to get any rest, and wouldn't even lie down in bed until you had at least four spoonfuls of codeine cough syrup in your system."

Sherlock smirks. "If you think that's bad, you ought to tend to Mycroft when he's ill."

"Mycroft? Ill? It sounds strange, but I honestly can't imagine him sick. Seems like he would consider it far too pedestrian."

"Oh, he most certainly does. That hardly makes him immune, though. When Mycroft is sick he is reduced to a blubbering puddle of loud complaints and endless requests for more biscuits. He seems to endeavor to break the world record for whining and bemoaning his own state each time he falls ill. It would be impressive if it weren't so utterly annoying."

John laughs at that, his eyes sparkling despite the faint cloudiness the flu has brought to his irises. Finally, they reach the top of the staircase and ultimately John's room. Sherlock considers putting John down right here in front of the door since he's certainly strong enough to make it to his bed, but then thinks better of it. He rather likes carrying John, so he'll take any excuse available to continue doing so.

He nudges open the door with his foot and walks into the room, a faint smirk on his face as he recognizes how deeply this resembles the post-marital gesture of the groom carrying his bride through the threshold. He relishes the thought in the doorway for a moment before John clears his throat and says, "I think I can manage the next six steps, Sherlock."

Sherlock tries to quickly think of a reason why he shouldn't put John down but to his displeasure, comes up with nothing. With an internal sigh and an impeccable poker face, he carefully puts John down feet first so he can stand on his own.

John wobbles for a second, but immediately recovers. "Thanks for, uh, carrying me…" John says awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he guides John—without touching him; John doesn't want to be treated like an old man—over to the bed. "Honestly John, it isn't that big of a deal. I've carried you before."

John settles under the covers and stretches out his limbs. "Sure, but that was when I twisted my ankle that one time. You _had_ to carry me, otherwise we both would've had our legs blown off by the bomb. Hardly the same situation."

Sherlock shrugs. "You just vomited and had already been displaying clear signs of a migraine, meaning that your center of balance was off. Walking up a flight of stairs would have been difficult if not entirely too ambitious in your state. I did what I needed to do."

John looks at him. "I—okay. Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods and then sweeps his gaze over John to assess his current condition. "Alright, my knowledge of medicine is quite limited, but I'd say you definitely have the flu. The fever has yet to hit, but it should be here soon. For now your symptoms are headache, vomiting, and fatigue, yes?"

John nods. "That sounds about right."

"Yes, well, then I suggest you sleep for now." Sherlock is rather impressed with how assured and confident his voice sounds, considering how utterly _un_confident he actually feels towards tending to John. It's one thing to carry him up some steps, but it's entirely another to help him through the towering fever and discomfort he'll soon experience. In all honesty, the task is rather daunting.

John, however, looks more amused than anything else. "Yes, I know. I'm a doctor, Sherlock. I'll shout if I need anything later, alright? For now I believe I will take your advice and sleep for a bit."

* * *

Two hour later, Sherlock is downstairs reorganizing his spilled mold cultures when he hears a very long, very unhappy, "_Sherlock."_

He drops his precious petri dishes (again!) and takes the stairs two at a time. "John, what is it?" He calls, worriedly. The room is too dark to clearly see him so Sherlock flicks on the light.

"Christ, my head…" John groans, throwing his forearm over his eyes. "Turn off the light, please, it's making this headache even worse."

Sherlock immediately flicks off the light switch again. "Better?"

John's form is still visible in the fading daylight spilling from the window, and Sherlock can see the outline of his nodding head. "Yeah, yeah much better. Thank you." He still sounds pained, though, and that makes Sherlock's entire body feel jittery and anxious with the desire to help him.

"John, _how do I fix you_?" Sherlock pleads, past the point of caring about eloquence. "Tell me right now. I—I remember hearing something about soup being helpful…or a wet flannel on the face or something?"

John coughs, a weak smile on his face. "Yeah, it's chicken soup, and that actually sounds quite nice right now. Probably the only thing I can hold down," he turns his face into the crook of his elbow to cough again. "The wet flannel is supposed to go on your forehead; it's meant to take a fever down. I don't think I have a fever, but I'm not exactly sharp as a tack at the moment so I suppose it wouldn't hurt to double check. Thermometer's in the bathroom cupboard, second shelf."

Once Sherlock has retrieved the thermometer and popped it underneath John's tongue, he stands above him, nervously wringing his hands at the side of the bed. "When will it be ready? Does it ding or something? I know it's electric, but—"

"Sh'lock," John attempts to say around the thermometer. "It'sh okay. I know wha' m' doin."

He nods and waits.

Several hundred decades later, the blasted thing finally beeps and John removes it from his mouth. "Alright, nothing too bad. Thirty-eight degrees; just a low fever. I should probably take some Paracetamol to keep it down."

Sherlock dashes away to get the medicine. When he returns, he anxiously watches John take the pills, illogically expecting the effect to be immediate.

"Sherlock," John rasps, "you act like you've never been around a sick person before. Calm down."

"I've been around several ill people in my life, John, I've just," he pauses, "I've just never attempted to take care of one before. I don't want to do it wrong."

The teasing look fades from John's face and his eyes soften. "You're doing fine."

After a few minutes, drowsiness returns and John falls into another deep sleep. Sherlock carries his mold spores upstairs so he can work with them in the hallway outside John's door, that way he is nearby in case John needs anything.

. . .

When John wakes up again, it's half past five and Sherlock's beautiful mold cultures are restored to their formal glory. "Sh-sherlock" John calls from within the room.

"John?" he says, pushing open the door. "Can I turn on the light?"

"Y-yes."

"Why do you sound like that?" Sherlock asks, immediately concerned.

"I'm c-cold, Sh-sherlock." John stutters, his teeth chattering together as if he were in an icebox instead of his warm bed. With wide, worried eyes Sherlock dashes over to the side of his bed.

"How do I make you any warmer, John? I've already put all our blankets in here and I don't think a hot bath would be a good idea since you said temperature preference fluctuates during the flu. If I put you in hot water, your fever might return and then you'll wish to be cold again. Maybe I could—I don't know—maybe," Sherlock pauses to articulate himself. "Would body heat help? It's temporary enough to remove quickly if necessary, unlike a hot bath or something of that sort."

John nods and reaches an arm out blindly for Sherlock. "Yeah. Yes, c-come here."

Sherlock's eyes widen and he hesitates, frozen in place. In all honesty he hadn't really believed John would be willing to take his suggestion; it was only on a feeling of spontaneity that he decided to voice it at all. The fact that John is now requesting to—for lack of a better term—cuddle with Sherlock is so absolutely incredible that for a single, solitary moment Sherlock's mind is wiped completely blank.

"Sh-Sherlock?" asks John, into the silence, his hand still outstretched.

"Right." He walks over and settles himself beside John in the bed, leaving a few inches between them, and wonders how he should start this. Does he just…just reach out and pull John to him? Or should he lay across John's chest? Or…?

"Shut up," says John.

Sherlock is shaken from his contemplations at that. He looks over at John in alarm. "What?"

"Your overthinking is getting a b-bit loud over there." And with that, John reaches over and pulls Sherlock into what could be considered a hug, except for the fact that they're laying horizontally. John curls himself into Sherlock, his forehead pressed into Sherlock's collarbones. Carefully, Sherlock splays a hand across John's back.

"Is this better?" He asks tentatively.

"Mm." John replies, nuzzling his face against the silky material of Sherlock's dressing gown. "Closer. You're so warm," John mutters sleepily. He reaches around to wrap his arm over Sherlock's back and tugs him closer, squeezing him as if were some kind of giant stuffed animal. (Not that Sherlock is complaining, of course.)

The increase in proximity leaves Sherlock with the option of either resigning himself to leg cramps later, or tossing his left leg over John's and allowing himself to stretch. John snuggles even closer—Jesus, any nearer and they are going to melt into one being—and Sherlock decides that since John seems willing enough, he might as well get comfortable. Without further thought, he hooks his leg over John's and adjusts himself so they fit together like puzzle pieces.

Even though John is dozing off—or possibly already asleep—Sherlock wonders if he can hear his heartbeat, considering how loud and frantic it currently is. This is wonderful, absolutely wonderful, but a part of Sherlock aches for even more, which is greedy since this precious bit of intimacy should be more than enough. This of course isn't to say he is not grateful—because he truly is—but he can't help but yearn for John to do something like this when he isn't half asleep or sick or so hopped-up on fever medicine that he'd just as likely cuddle with bloody _Mycroft._ The simple truth of the matter is this: He wants John to want him. Really _want_ him.

He knows John is an affectionate person by nature, so he's always tried not to take moments like this as anything more than they are, but sometimes he finds himself questioning if perhaps they do signify more than platonic fondness. Though he himself has never bothered with ideas of what is normal and what isn't, he's socially-aware enough to know that typically, male friends do not engage in such intimate actions with each other. A solid clap on the back is one thing, or perhaps a quick, gruff hug now and then, but Sherlock is fairly certain that normal, platonically-involved blokes don't cuddle in bed with their limbs intertwined like vines.

Then again, his friendship with John has always been several shades from 'normal'; even at a passing glance, their strangeness is easily exhibited through their dangerous lifestyle, collective quirks and oddities, and the fact that John would be more surprised to find fruit in the crisper than disembodied thumbs and mold cultures. Their lack of normalcy isn't too surprising: one is an unsociable, former drug addict and self-proclaimed genius and the other is a danger-hungry invalidated army doctor with a penchant for jumpers and handguns. They are an odd pair by nature, so he supposes it only makes sense that their relationship would be a bit different from everyone else's. They can't help the fact that being very close to each other—physically and figuratively—is what comes natural.

It is because of these moments of thoughtless, easy intimacy that people always assume they are 'together': John's fingers laced with Sherlock's as they run, a hand at the small of John's back to usher him forward, or the generally close proximity they always keep between each other.

And Sherlock does not mind it one bit—he rather likes when people assume they're a couple and makes a point never to correct them—but he can't help but feel a slight pang in his chest every time he hears it. He is well aware that it is greedy to want more than the easy going, intimate companionship he currently has with John, but the heart wants what it bloody wants and no amount of cool logic will quell it.

John mumbles something in his sleep and tightens his grip around Sherlock. "Mm, warm…"

Sherlock smiles into John's hair and decides that if this is all he is going to get for now, he'll damn well make the most of it. With a languid sigh, he pulls John closer and allows his eyelids to flutter shut. He only intends to have a quick kip, but the smell of cinnamon and the delicious, lazy warmth of this embrace lull Sherlock into a deep, pleasant slumber right along with John.

* * *

The third time John wakes up, the fever has broken and the color is beginning to return to his cheeks. However, the headache and remains, so Sherlock diplomatically pops down to Mrs. Hudson's to ask what he should give John next. Her solution happens to be three bright-colored pills that will eliminate the headache entirely and allow John to sleep easily.

However, there is something else rather notable about the Third Time John Wakes Up: in between his waking up and Sherlock's visit to Mrs. Hudson, the two of them are rather intimately intertwined. Sherlock wakes up in the same manner he always has—abruptly conscious and instantly alert—and he uses every moment of sharp focus to categorize and stow away every aspect of this moment. He builds an entirely new room in his mind palace dedicated solely to the feeling of waking up entangled with John.

Eventually John rouses too, but surprisingly he doesn't seem even slightly perturbed by their position. Instead he just mumbles "Move. Need to pee," and then rolls out of bed.

Once he returns he tumbles back under the covers, pressing into his temples with a pained expression. "Christ, this headache. There isn't much else to do, I left my stock of powerful pain medication at the clinic yesterday, so we don't have—"

Sherlock splays open his palm, wherein three pills sit in the center. "Mrs. Hudson said to give you these."

"Bless that woman," John mumbles, accepting the colorful capsules eagerly.

"They're quite powerful so you'll feel a bit, er, _'not yourself'_, I believe were her exact words."

"Yes, most pain medication will do that. Especially ones that contain antihistamine, like this. Oh well." He pops the pills into his mouth and then chases them with a large gulp of water.

Sherlock stares at him, waiting. John notices and rolls his eyes, "Sherlock, I'm not going to go loopy seconds after taking the medicine. It'll take away the pain and make me a bit drowsy later. Nothing more."

. . .

What John failed to explain was that "a bit drowsy" is actually code for "completely barmy".

Sherlock first notices something is wrong an hour after John has taken the pills, when he solemnly asks Sherlock, "Has that painting always spoken French?"

Sherlock glances away from his experiment and stares at John. "What?"

"There, right there." John points to the drab painting of a wheat field hanging against the wall. There isn't even a person in it.

"Er, John? What are you talking about?"

John tosses himself on his back and stares up at the ceiling with a dreamy smile. "Not sure. Was I just speaking French too? Sherlock, can you speak French? I know you can, I've heard you arguing in French with your brother, Microsoft, before."

Sherlock stares at John, the puzzle pieces falling together: the medicine is apparently making its grand appearance at last. With that figured out, he plucks his phone from his shirt pocket and gleefully composes a few texts.

**_Sent at: 7:05pm_**

_John has a delightful new nickname for you. I quite like it. SH _

**_Sent at: 7:06pm_**

_Though, I'm not sure if you'll care for it, Microsoft. SH_

Then, he tucks his phone away and returns his attention to John. "It's the pills, John. They're making you feel a bit odd. That painting is not speaking French, and neither are you."

John nods and settles himself further under the covers, almost like a little kid gaily wrestling in his freshly tucked-in bed sheets. "Tell me a story, Detective," he requests. "Make it a r_eallyreally_ good'n." His words start to slur a bit, and Sherlock cannot tell if it's due to the medication or his impending slumber.

He slowly moves over to John's bed, wondering what on earth he is going to tell him. When he finally settles himself at the edge of the bed, John taps his own forehead. "Pet my hair back while you tell the story. It's relaxing."

Sherlock obliges, raising his cool palm to John's warm forehead and stroking back into his soft, salt-and-pepper blonde hair. John hums appreciatively and melts into the bed, his eyes fluttering shut in contentment.

It hardly matters what he says since John won't remember any of this, so he just starts talking. "Once upon a time there was a very lonely boy. He was a genius and a scientist and he knew endless facts, but no one liked him very much. He didn't care, though; their approval wasn't important. The lonely boy grew into a lonely man and he still believed he didn't need anyone, up until the point when he met a brilliant, beautiful army doctor with an unnecessary cane and a mad addiction to danger." Sherlock smiles, threading his long fingers through John's hair soothingly. "The two of them rented a wonderful flat with a motherly landlady, and they went on many adventures together. For the first time the genius didn't feel alone, because unlike the others, the kind doctor stayed.

"Then, one day, something strange happened. Something warm and fuzzy started building in the genius's chest, something he'd never felt before in his life. It took him a very long time to realize that it was—" Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek. "Love. But he wasn't sure if the doctor felt the same, so he locked it up in his mind and kept it a secret," he pauses, "the…the end, I suppose."

John frowns sleepily and stops Sherlock's moving hand with his own. He doesn't push it away, he just holds it within his hands near his chest. "That isn't a happy ending."

Sherlock sighs. "Not quite."

John holds up Sherlock's slack hand and blearily examines it. "I hope the doctor loves him too," he says, drowsily. He smiles dreamily and presses an earnest kiss to the center of Sherlock's palm. "Night."

Sherlock blinks for a few moments in surprise, allowing his limp hand to stay sandwiched between John's. "Yes, I hope so too," he finally says quietly, minutes later.

* * *

The medicine has a longer lasting effect than Sherlock originally imagined, because two hours later when they are curled up on the couch watching telly, John is still quite drowsy and delirious.

He managed to coax John out of bed and onto the couch, where John immediately demanded to watch something "action-y and explode-y", which was Sherlock's first hint that the pills had yet to wear off.

Sherlock had obliged, only to be stuck watching the stupid thing by himself since John fell asleep almost immediately after the film had started.

He can't begrudge his current position too much though, since John is curled up beside him like a wonderful, soft pillow. He happily ignores most of the movie in favor of brushing his fingers through John's hair and nuzzling the top of his head.

Onscreen, the ridiculous explosions finally stop, and the main bloke, the one with the steroid-induced muscles and three day old stubble, turns to face the leading woman with something Sherlock assumes is supposed to be lust. Although, with all of that lip biting and squinting, he seems to be in pain more than anything. The action music stops and in its place a cheesy, dramatic ballad begins to play. In painfully tedious slow motion, they run at each other, each shouting the others name in an overly-exaggerated manner. (Does it really take that long to say "Lucy" and "Ryan"?)

The song reaches its crescendo as the two kiss, the camera panning around them and catching every meeting of their lips. Sherlock fights the urge to throw the remote at the telly.

The woman on the scene tosses her head back in a dramatic show of ecstasy as the man licks his way up the length of her throat. Then, he latches onto the side of her neck and sucks—yes, actually _sucks_ like a bloody vampire—and she groans rather obscenely, forcing Sherlock to temporarily glance away in embarrassment.

"Does that actually feel good?" Sherlock asks aloud, staring back at the screen with mild disgust. "I mean, really, sucking the skin of another's neck sounds more repulsive than anything."

Sherlock isn't actually expecting a response since John is sound asleep, so when he hears a drowsy, slightly slurred, "Yeah, feels super great," seconds later, he's quite surprised.

"John?" Sherlock attempts to readjust himself so he can see John's face, but the sudden movement causes John's limp body to fall across his, leaving John's head in his lap. John opens his eyes blearily before settling his gaze on the underside of Sherlock's chin.

"Morning," John mumbles, absently petting Sherlock's chest.

"It isn't morning, John," corrects Sherlock, "It's eleven at night."

"You're right; you're a genius!" exclaims John, eyes widened in awe. "Of course you are, you're Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes. The consulting baker of Detective Street," he pauses and thinks it over, giggling. "Oh, that's quite wrong. I meant the_ only_ consulting baker. Only one in the whole world."

Sherlock stares down at him and debates whether or not he should force John back to bed or enjoy this while he can.

"You're quite pretty for a baker," muses John, reaching up to clumsily pat Sherlock's cheekbone.

"Thank you," replies Sherlock politely, immeasurably grateful that John is too delirious to recognize the dark, rosy flush spreading across his face. So…John's bedtime can wait a bit, yes? Because how often is it that he'll get to hear something like _that?_

They sit in silence for bit, Sherlock attempting not to think about John snuggled in his lap while John dozes on and off again, muttering nonsense under his breath and wriggling about restlessly. Finally after ten and a half minutes, John sits bolt upright, nearly knocking his head into Sherlock's in the process. John raises his eyebrows to his forehead, his expression a hyperbole of earnestness. "I broke things off with Laura, ya' know. Yesterday."

Sherlock scoots away so he can face John on the small, slightly cramped sofa. This is certainly news to him. "Yes?"

John nods his head so hard his teeth audibly click together. "Yup. She didn't fancy you one bit. Said you were—" he yawns,"—bad for me. Bad for my health because of all the dangerous bits during cases and bad for my social life because you 'repel future relationships'." John rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. "Her words, not mine. She also called you a clod—or was it _cod_? No wait that's a fish…" John puzzles over this with studious concentration, his brow furrowed in thought. After a minute's deliberation, John gravely concludes, "You may have been called a fish, Sherlock."

No longer bothering to hide his amusement, Sherlock smirks and makes a 'go on' gesture with his hands.

"Yes, anyway, after she said those mean bits about how you were bad for me, I told her that _she_ was bad for me and you were just fine. Then I broke it off."

A warm, saturated glow blossoms in Sherlock's chest and he finds himself inordinately pleased. A large, ridiculous grin is threatening to spread across his face when it occurs to him that perhaps he ought to feign sorrow for John's sake. That is typically what one does when a friend's relationship has ended, yes?

"Er—I'm quite sorry about that, John." Then he reaches out and pats John's shoulder for good measure.

John stares at Sherlock's hand on his shoulder. When he looks back at him, the silliness in his eyes has been replaced by something sincere. "I'm not sorry. Not one bit. She made me choose between the two of you, which was really stupid of her because I will always choose you."

Sherlock blinks. Instead of responding, he flexes his grip on John's shoulder, digging the pads of his fingertips in deeper, almost possessively. His mouth feels dry and his mind is a useless blank slate capable of processing only a single word: "Really?"

John nods drowsily, the medicine catching back up to him. "Can I have a hug now?" he manages to slur out. He begins leaning towards Sherlock without an answer, though Sherlock suspects this is due to his weak, sickened state and not his disregard for Sherlock's consent.

"Yes." Sherlock leans back against the far arm of the sofa and gathers a nodding-off John against his chest. When John is completely pressed into him, warm and pliant and ridiculously soft, Sherlock rests his chin on top of John's head and sighs.

All in all, Sherlock decides, this whole day has not been as difficult as he imagined. That isn't to say he'll join a queue for medical school any time soon, of course, but Sherlock certainly does not mind playing doctor as long as the day ends with _his_ doctor folded within his arms and smelling delightfully of cinnamon.

* * *

**A/N: And there you have it folks: Chapter five! Again, I have to thank you guys so much for reading, bookmarking, and reviewing this story. It honestly means the world :) As always, feedback is delicious encouragement that I welcome with open arms, so feel free to share! **

**Thanks for reading, loves, see you next Sunday! X0X0**


	6. Consulting Miss Hooper Part 1

**A/N: My oh my what a busy week it has been. I'm sorry this is being posted so late-though, technically it's still being posted on Sunday since it is currently 11:45. **

**I just want to thank you guys that reviewed on the last chapter; your comments, encouragement, and criticism give me endless inspiration and I cannot thank you all enough. *virtual hugs all around* **

**Special shout out to a guest reviewer under the name "New Here": Your review made my entire week, love! Thank you_ so_ much for taking the time to write such a thorough and well thought out review! The moment I saw it I started smiling like a loon :) **

**Enjoy! This one is a two-parter.**

* * *

Sherlock figures that since he's already woken up intertwined with John twice already, by the third time he ought to feel completely unfazed.

However, when he blearily opens his eyes the next morning and discovers that they are still cuddled up on the couch, John laying between his legs with his head directly under Sherlock's chin, the same startling rush of endorphins course through his veins. He lays there for a moment, blithely stroking his hands over John's hair and back, savoring the feeling and storing it away into the depths of his Mind Palace. He can tell by John's breathing alone that the sickness has passed, since each breath no longer sounds rattling and pained. Instead, his back slowly rises and falls in a very peaceful manner that Sherlock reluctantly likens to that of a sleeping small animal—however he_ refuses_ to directly compare John to a slumbering kitten, even in his own mind, so that vague insinuation will have to do.

Minutes pass before John begins to rouse, muttering nonsense and beginning to shift about. "Sh'lock?" John mumbles into the collarbones of the man in question.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and glances down at the top of his head, tightening his grip around John's waist even though John's gradually returning awareness ought to have made him do the opposite. "Mm?" he questions tightly, not quite wanting to speak for fear of startling John.

But John doesn't look shocked or perturbed in the slightest as he raises his head and blinks sleepily up at Sherlock. "I feel loads better," he mutters, allowing his head to fall back onto Sherlock's chest. He still seems a bit groggy, which is perhaps why he proceeds to rub his cheek against the silky material of Sherlock's dress robes, before mumbling something and drifting back off.

Sherlock knows better than to question this lovely turn of events, and wastes no time in pulling John even closer and resting his chin atop John's head. After a quick round of deductions and a mental review of John's sleeping schedule, he surmises that he has about ten more minutes before John wakes fully.

As he lays there and absently taps Beethoven's 7th symphony against John's spine, he recognizes that prior to knowing John, he would have never imagined touching someone like this.

His lifelong aversion to physical contact could have been due to his isolation as a child; the idea of having consistent company without some kind of contract involved was baffling enough, so the notion that someone could find _joy_ in hugging him or holding his hand was absolutely _impossible._ Whenever he'd seen the other children—and eventually, the other teenagers and other adults—holding hands, kissing another's cheek, or sharing an embrace, he forced down the acidic jealousy and longing that stirred in his gut, and firmly told himself that he _did not care._ He _did not_ want that; he didn't need it. Physical affection remained distasteful to him as a teenager and young man, and that hardly changed when he grew into adulthood. He found it uncomfortable, false, and entirely unnecessary—and Sherlock was never one to bother with trifling matters or empty sentiment.

Throughout his life he repeated this mantra until it became a concrete fact of he who was: _I am Sherlock Holmes and affection is __not__ my area. _

He would've continued to live out the rest of his days missing out on something he wasn't even aware he was lacking, if only he hadn't met freshly-invalidated, compassionate Army Doctor, John Watson.

It was on the third day of their friendship that Sherlock first realized the 'upsides' to touching. He had been hunched over his microscope examining saliva of different viscosities, when John brushed by and briefly laid a hand on his left shoulder. "I'm going to the shops, do you need anything?" At the time Sherlock had gone as stiff as a board, stunned by the causal way John doled out physical contact. He muttered a vague 'no' and then his eyes widened in shock _again_ when John squeezed his shoulder once more before walking past him. The delicious warmth that blossomed from the place John touched perplexed Sherlock, because never before had he been on the receiving end of such nonchalant contact. No one touched him, he didn't touch anyone, and (he thought) that was the way he liked it.

Despite his initial misgivings, after that instance the physical affections grew in both frequency and familiarity. Sherlock quickly learned that John was a very demonstrative person by nature, and to his surprise, found himself wholly unperturbed by it. In fact, it didn't take long for him to become quite comfortable with John's hand on his shoulder, the middle of his back, and occasionally the nape of his neck. Their close proximity on the couch and in cabs became routine and the irregularity of their embraces lessened considerably. Touching in general was no longer note-worthy and shocking; it was just the way they were.

That was why it felt only natural that Sherlock began returning the causal touches as well.

Sherlock sighs. Sometimes it feels almost too good to be true—having a friend like John—and he fears that one day John will wake up and realize that he can do _so _much better than an insensitive, emotionally-awkward consulting detective.

The only thing that manages to quell this fear is the fact that he has given John many reasons to pack up and go in the past—laziness, wayward experiments, body parts in the crisper, violin at 3am, etc.—yet John has stayed through it all. Though, he supposes that isn't too much of a surprise since one of John's most prominent traits is steadfast loyalty.

"Morning."

Sherlock flinches as he is unceremoniously ripped from his musings by John's sleep-roughened voice. Sherlock immediately scoots himself back into the arm of the couch so John can extricate himself from the long tangle of his legs, but John only groans in complaint and tightens his grip on Sherlock's waist. "Don't move—comfortable," he mutters, voice muffled by the material of Sherlock's cotton t-shirt.

Sherlock supposes if anyone could see his face at the moment, it would be twisted rather comically in surprise. Possibly into a caricature of confusion, as well.

"Don't you…don't you want to get up?" asks Sherlock warily. Is John _still _experiencing some aftereffects of the medicine? He must be, because how else can Sherlock feasibly explain John willingly hugging/cuddling him?

"No," John replies, turning his head to the side so his words are no longer muffled. His ear is now pressed against Sherlock's furiously pounding heart. "This is bloody comfortable and I'm in no rush to pop off to work."

Sherlock knows he ought to just accept this and enjoy it without question, but his bewilderment is too strong to suppress. "You and Me. You want to…to stay like this?"

John shrugs and when Sherlock feels the contraction of John's shoulder muscles beneath his palm, he realizes that his hands are still splayed across John's back. "Why not? We've been like this all night, yeah? Bit late to get coy."

He can tell from John's tone that he means what he says, despite the teasing lilt that colors the last phrase. John's right, though: they've been like this for hours already, so what are a few more minutes?

"Well, alright." Sherlock concedes evenly, despite the fact that his heart is positively singing in joy.

After twenty blissful minutes of just lazing about on the couch, the two of them finally rise and commence their respective morning rituals. Sherlock takes a lightning-fast shower and dresses in record time, his mind buzzing with a juxtaposition of confusion, happiness, excitement, joy—but, most prominently, _confusion._ John, self-proclaimed "not gay" man, has just laid on a couch with him, positioned in a _very_ intimate fashion, for eight hours—unconsciously—and nearly a half hour—consciously. He seemed entirely unbothered by the whole thing, which is strange because even for an innately physical man like John, laying between one's flat mate's legs with an ear pressed to their heart _has _to cross some kind of platonic boundary.

The fact that it seemingly _hasn't_ is quite interesting.

As soon as he flies from the shower and dons his typical suit, he pulls out of his mobile to send a text to one of the few people he feels he can consult.

**_Sent at: 9:05am _**

_Molly, something odd has just happened and I require your input. It pertains to John. Shall I call you? SH_

He sits down on his bed and impatiently taps his foot for the two minutes it takes for her to respond.

**_Sent at: 9:07am_**

_Nonsense, let's meet up! St. Barts lab and then lunch at my place? –Molly_

**_Sent at: 9:07am_**

_BTW there is something rather important I need to discuss as well. –Molly _

Sherlock eyes the most recent text with interest. Despite the fact that they've been corresponding regularly for the past few weeks—ever since that phone call in Kent four weeks ago, he's found that they are much closer than before, though he can't put his finger on why—he hasn't the slightest idea what it is she wishes to confide. Then, after a moment's deliberation, it hits him.

Aha!

Lately, Molly has been seeing some bloke that she has not stopped gushing over since their first date, but so far she's kept his identity a secret. Wisely, Molly has given him absolutely nothing to go off of—no occupation, appearance, personality description, not even his bloody hair color—and since he cannot deduce out of thin air, Sherlock has absolutely no idea who he is. All he knows is that Molly fancies him now she'll finally divulge his identity?

**_Sent at: 9:10am_**

_Yes, we'll meet in the lab at noon. SH_

**_Sent at 9:11am_**

_And if you insist on preparing lunch, do ensure that your pets are not crawling about the kitchen again. I've eaten more cat hair in the past two weeks than any sane person ought to. SH_

Satisfied, he tucks his mobile away, only to have to remove it seconds later when it buzzes with her response.

**_Sent at: 9:12am_**

_See you then! :-) –Molly_

He rolls his eyes and drops his mobile into his pocket. Molly and her ridiculous smiley faces. Honestly, how can one use such a thing and expect to be taken seriously?

Feeling less troubled than before, Sherlock strides from his room and into the kitchen where he makes a pot of tea. It tastes fair, but John's is much better, unsurprisingly.

He resigns himself to the adequate drink and leans against the counter.

Despite the internal conflict that is still raging in the pit of his stomach, he feels slightly better knowing he'll get to speak with Molly soon and lighten his burden. He feels hopeful, untroubled even. Almost like—

_Wait. _He freezes, cup inches from his mouth. His lack of troubles immediately dissipates as something quite sobering occurs to him: _the bedtime story!_

The stupid, bloody bedtime story that he thoughtlessly told John while he was in his delirious, half-conscious state.

God.

He flings his empty tea cup into the sink where it clatters noisily, immediately pressing his newly-freed fingers to his temples. _Think think think!_

What exactly did he say to John?

The memory is hazy for a moment, then it sharpens into focus as if it happened minutes ago.

He closes his eyes and immerses himself into the memory, carefully examining each incriminating word after the next. After two intensive minutes, his eyes fly wide open and his hands drop uselessly to his sides.

What was he thinking?

He confessed all of his feelings for John _and_ several of his own insecurities in one fell swoop!

Something quiet in the back of his head reminds him that John replied with "I hope the Doctor loves him too", but he quickly chalks that up to delirium and bats it aside.

He paces the kitchen for the next five minutes, wondering how he will possibly deflect John's questions. Though, perhaps John doesn't remember any of it; he _was_ rather out of it, after all. Besides, if he remembers, wouldn't he have said something when he woke up this morning? He seemed fairly normal and gave no indication that anything was amiss.

This thought comforts Sherlock, but he needs to know for _certain_ that John doesn't remember, if he's going to face John at breakfast. Before he has the time to overthink anything, his feet are carrying him over to the bathroom and his knuckles are rapping lightly against the door.

"John?" He calls.

Over the din of the shower, John replies, "Yeah?"

"Do you…are we..." he scowls at his own inarticulacy. "Are we okay?"

There's a beat of silence, before John says, "Yeah, of course we are. Why wouldn't we be?" in a confused voice that Sherlock knows is genuine.

His shoulders sag in relief and he briefly rests his forehead against the door, exhaling audibly.

Thank _god._

"Er, no reason." Then he practically skips into the kitchen, relief singing in his veins.

When John gets out of the shower and seats himself at the table—smelling like sweet shampoo, cinnamon, and the enticing, indescribable scent of pheromones—they engage in a very pleasing, rather domestic breakfast. John unfolds his newspaper and skims the sports section for football articles, waiting for his toast to pop up, and Sherlock reads a riveting online editorial on the enzymic and chemically induced decomposition of glucosinolates, while his fresh cup of tea cools beside him.

All in all it is an enjoyable, easygoing mealtime.

John scoops some jam from the pot with the edge of his knife and spreads it liberally over a slice of toast. As he sucks the sticky remains from the side of his thumb, he says, "You know, I meant to tell you sooner, but I broke up with Laura a few days ago."

"Yes, I believe you told me last night," replies Sherlock, as he carefully drops two cubes of sugar into his amber-colored tea.

John blinks at him, toast hovering inches from his partially opened mouth. "I did?"

Sherlock nods and resumes stirring the sugar into his tea. "Yes, well, among other things of course."

With wary eyes, he asks, "Like what?"

"Well," begins Sherlock calmly, "you did say I was a consulting baker."

Breakfast forgotten, John numbly repeats, "consulting baker?"

"Of Detective Street, yes," supplies Sherlock, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

John winces and then takes a deep breath. "Right. Yeah. Okay, what else?"

Sherlock takes his time to raise his cup to his mouth, sipping leisurely as he decides what to start with. One particularly amusing recollection hits him and it takes all of his willpower not to snort rather unbecomingly.

"Well, you did call my brother Microsoft. That was a personal favorite of mine, by the way. Shame I didn't think of that myself."

John's mouth drops open a bit, but once the words sink in, his surprised silence melts easily into laughter. "Wow. I must've been pretty out of it, because I don't remember anything. Judging by the look on your face, I'm guessing I said a quite a few other ridiculous things, but there's really no need to reiterate all of them. In fact, I'd rather we didn't."

Sherlock grins. "So then you_ don't_ want to hear about the landscape painting you thought spoke French?"

John groans and rubs his forehead. "Yeah, I think I'm okay without further elaboration on that."

Sherlock smirks and briefly returns his attention to his tea. John meanwhile picks up his forgotten toast and takes a bite, cringing minutely at its slight sogginess. Sherlock assesses John for a moment before rising from the table and dropping a fresh piece of bread into the toaster. He knows for a fact that John likes his toast when it is hot from the toaster, not cold and soggy from being untouched too long. When the bread pops up, he wordlessly slathers it with blackberry jam—John's favorite, Sherlock's second favorite—cuts it in half, and then drops the two pieces unceremoniously before John. Immediately after, he returns back to his seat and reopens his laptop to continue reading his article.

There is a pregnant pause in which John stares at his plate then back up at Sherlock. "Why?"

Sherlock shrugs elegantly and scrolls to the where he left off in the editorial. "You don't like cold toast."

For the second time this morning, John looks surprised, though this time it seems to be a pleased sort of surprised. A small smile darts across his face and he raises it to his mouth to take a bite, pushing the cold toast aside with his free hand. "Thanks, Sherlock."

The two eat and read in comfortable silence, the sounds of the occasionally turned paper or tapped keyboard providing calming white noise in the background.

After some time, John folds his paper in half and sets it off to the side, his brow creased in thought. John worries his lip for a moment, glancing up at Sherlock and then back at his plate as if steeling himself to say something. "Sherlock, I meant to say so earlier, but…well, thank you for taking care of me yesterday, I know it couldn't have been easy."

Sherlock waves it away, resolutely keeping his eyes on the screen. "It was nothing."

"No, it wasn't _nothing_," John earnestly rebukes. "It was…it was good of you. Thank you."

Sherlock nods succinctly and forces himself to continue staring at the screen, despite the fact that he is no longer registering a single word. His face heats and something warm and feathery curls in his chest at having John's unwavering attention—and gratitude—solely on him. "You're welcome, John," he says slowly, finally tearing his gaze away from the text and focusing on John.

John's eyes are sincere and open; two navy-blue pools that resemble glossy ink or the midnight sky scattered with stars. Even though Sherlock is not the most adept at picking up emotional cues, he can see blatant fondness on John's face, which makes his heart positively sing.

John smiles and leans forward almost imperceptibly, his features settling into an expression of intimate familiarity that Sherlock has often seen directed at his girlfriends and rarely at Sherlock himself. He focuses his attention unwaveringly on John, his heart hammering loudly in his chest.

"Did I tell you why I broke up with Laura?" John asks softly.

Well, yes, John did actually say why, but Sherlock is not at all opposed to hearing it reiterated. Especially because this time John is completely sober so whatever he says, Sherlock can take _without_ a grain of salt.

He clears his throat. "I don't believe so."

"I broke up with Laura because she couldn't accept certain nonnegotiable aspects of my life," begins John.

Sherlock frowns in confusion. This is certainly not what John told him last night. His spirit wilts at the thought that perhaps John's seemingly earnest words were born of delirium from the medicine, instead of actual sincerity. Disappointment aside, he schools his features into his typical mask of indifference, squeezing his fist under the table to alleviate some of the frustration and anguish bubbling restlessly in his chest.

"Nonnegotiable aspects?" questions Sherlock coolly, impressed with himself for the utter lack of emotion in his tone.

John nods and steadily meets his gaze. Despite the fact that apparently he hadn't broken up with Laura for Sherlock's sake, there is still that inexplicable warmth burning behind his blue eyes, and it confuses Sherlock now more than ever.

"Yes, she couldn't accept that you and I take dangerous cases, or that I refused to move in with her…" he trails off for a moment to articulate himself. "And she couldn't accept the most important thing in my life, the main nonnegotiable aspect: _you_. She didn't like you, said rubbish things about you, and hated that we spend so much time together. Once she made her feelings about you clear I broke it off immediately."

"Oh."

It is right then that Sherlock recalls something quite random: once, accidentally, he stumbled across a ridiculous, overly sentimental poem while skimming through his endless stacks of Mycology and Thanatology articles; at the time he was too indifferent to question it deeply, but looking back he supposes either John or Mrs. Hudson left it there. The poem itself was poorly written—in his eyes, anyway—and it largely surrounded the premise that the author's heart stuttered to a halt whenever their loved one was near. After reading the entire poem in less than two minutes, he finished with a scoff and chucked the thing over his shoulder in a crumpled ball. He hasn't given it a single second of thought since.

However, now he realizes that perhaps that writer was onto something, because the minute those words escape John's mouth, his heart quite_ literally_ skips a beat.

He's not entirely sure what to say in response to something like this; what can Sherlock _possibly_ say after John has just told Sherlock he is the most important thing in his life?

Before he has the chance to think anything over, his mouth opens of its own accord and pure, uncensored truth spills forth, "Then I suppose that makes me the luckiest person in London."

The silence that follows hits like a bomb, and with each passing second Sherlock can feel blush creep higher and higher up his neck. He opens his mouth and says nothing—his mouth moving uselessly like a fish out of water—and he imagines that his own expression is even more surprised and perplexed than John's. He doesn't give himself a chance to find out, though, because he immediately cuts his eyes away and focuses on the table instead.

"That was—" John starts, but Sherlock cuts him off.

"I know, I know, er, I didn't…I meant that…you…you said I am important and I just—just meant to say—wanted to say—er," he feels hot panic curl inside his chest like a boa constrictor, his eyelids fluttering in nervous succession. God, now he's made everything bloody awkward! John was being so open, so wonderfully _open_ and _affectionate_, and Sherlock just _had _to go and muck it all up with a weird comment that was a shade too sincere for casual conversation. God, he is such a fool, such a—

"Sherlock," says John with a smile in his voice, and the surprise Sherlock feels at his tone is enough to make him snap his head up and meet John's gaze. "I was going to say that was really…" he pauses and grins at him, his eyes bright and tinged lightly with playfulness. "You're going to hate that I'm using this word, I know, but that was really quite _sweet._"

Sherlock's feeling of indignation is surpassed only by his feeling of complete relief. To maintain the lighthearted mood of the room, he chooses to express the former.

"John. I am not _sweet_," he bites, though his tone lacks any malice.

John takes a sip of tea and beams at him over the edge of the cup. "I beg to differ. You played nurse when I was ill, provided a wonderful morning cuddle, and now you're blushing down to your roots because I admitted how important you are," his eyes are practically radiating warmth and boyish charm. "Sounds to me like you, Mr. Holmes, are _sweet."_

It isn't until he thoughtlessly replies, "Only to you, John," in an easy, relaxed tone, that he realizes what they are doing.

They are _flirting._

Actually, truly _flirting._

John grins back and the two of them share a warm, lingering glance, the silence stretching comfortably between them for several minutes. Eventually the moment passes as moments are wont to do, and John resumes reading his paper while Sherlock returns his attention to the screen of his laptop. However, the air feels different now. Tense, but not in a negative way; it is charged in a manner that makes his skin tingle and his toes curl in some strange feeling of anticipation. Anticipation of what, he isn't sure.

After breakfast when John brushes by him on his way into the sitting room, he rubs his hand briefly against the back of Sherlock's neck in a rather intimate manner, his fingers twining in the curls at his nape. "Just so you know, I'm the second luckiest person," says John lightly, but the fact that his hands are caressing the back of Sherlock's skull rather diminishes any pretense of flippancy. Sherlock sighs softly through his nose and allows his head to tip back into John's palm, not caring in the least how it must look. To his surprise, this does not deter John in the slightest. In fact, Sherlock's silent encouragement prompts him to gently place a palm at Sherlock's hairline and brush back over his curls in a slow, appreciative manner. His fingers rake very lightly against Sherlock's sensitive scalp and Sherlock depletes every ounce of willpower to avoid bloody _purring_ at the feeling.

Instead he settles with a small hum in the back of his throat.

This entire lovely exchange seems to last lifetimes, but in reality lasts mere seconds. Just when Sherlock thinks John do it again, Johns announces, "Off to work, see you later," and proceeds to press a succinct, firm kiss to the top of Sherlock's head.

Before Sherlock's frazzled nerve endings have the chance to transmit the feeling to his brain, John is already bustling out the door, his face a pleasing shade of pink.

Sherlock blinks after him, confused and jittery with elation. John has kissed him only twice in the time that they've known each other: once, when John was utterly pissed and liable to kiss anyone's cheek, and once, after Sherlock had been stabbed in the alley by that homeless bloke, Seth Banks. Both times occurred when at least one of them was either unconscious or on the precipice of unconsciousness. This is the first time John has kissed him when they are both wide-awake and capable of making authentic decisions. Yes, it was a chaste kiss on the top of his head, but it was a _kiss _nonetheless, and the very gesture itself smacks of domesticity and well-worn romance. Sherlock is nearly certain that male friends—no matter how close—do not go around kissing each other's hair before they go to work as if they are an old married couple.

So, the fact that John has must mean…?

But—no! The _women_—his endless parade of buxom, brainless, bountifully-breasted women proves that John has no interest in men. Obvious! But, of course, there is the possibility, the slight, minute possibility that perhaps John is b—

No. No, thinking like that only produces false hope. He cannot afford to think like that, no matter how enticing it is to daydream of such things.

Sherlock groans in frustration and tugs at his hair, his mind grinding at such a furious speed that the sound of his fretting is practically audible.

Dear _god_, does he need to speak to Molly Hooper.

* * *

As he impatiently waits for noon to strike, Sherlock manages to occupy himself by half-heartedly experimenting on the slab of thigh Molly gave him last week. However, his focus isn't entirely in it so the results come out skewed and inaccurate. Uncharacteristically, he remains unperturbed by the failed experiment; it hardly matters since the entire thing is merely a distraction until he and Molly are scheduled to meet.

One wasted thigh and several lifetimes later, the blasted clock finally strikes noon and Sherlock practically sprints from the flat.

He's a bit annoyed to find that Molly isn't already there when he arrives five and a half minutes past twelve, but he has no trouble getting into the lab even without her keycard. He nicked one from a particularly annoying colleague of hers two weeks back, and has only hesitated to used it thus far to see if the clod would notice it was missing. Fourteen days later and he is still none the wiser, apparently.

Inside the lab, he loiters around without touching anything—begrudgingly he recognizes that breaking into the lab is one thing, but messing with unauthorized materials is entirely another—though he'd really like to examine his Fusarium samples; unfortunately he _does _need Molly for that, since the door to the storage chamber requires a code. On any other day he could probably figure it out within five minutes, but at the moment his mind is so full of questions and conflicting emotions that he does not possess enough focus to solve a riddle, let alone break into a refrigeration unit.

Six minutes after his arrival, Molly bustles in holding her messenger bag against her hip, her left hand haphazardly brushing back the flyaway hairs in her ponytail. If Molly is surprised to see him in the lab already, she doesn't show it. She simply walks in, drops her bag, pulls on a lab coat, and evenly says, "Please give Anthony his keycard back, Sherlock. You've got him thinking he's left it somewhere and he's been tearing his house apart in search of it for days."

Sherlock smirks and pulls the card in question from his pocket. He shoots her a mischievous look before striding across the room, sifting through the rack of labelled coats, locating Anthony's, and dropping the keycard neatly into the front pocket. "There," says Sherlock with mock enthusiasm. "Won't he be pleased to find it's been there all along?"

Molly starts chuckling, but then remembers that she is supposed to be the moral one of the pair and forces a stern look on her face instead. "Sherlock…"

"Anyway!" he interrupts brightly, clapping his hands once. "While we observe my flourishing cultures of Fusarium and Alternaria mold, I have a few questions for you."

Molly looks at him for a moment, apparently weighing whether not it is worth it to further chide him, before nodding in resignation. She glides over to the freezing unit, where the most delicate systems are stored and chilled accordingly. She slips on a pair of rubber gloves and reaches inside for Sherlock's tray of petri dishes. "You can start asking right now," she calls over her shoulder as she carefully removes the tray.

He leans against one of the counters and considers how to phrase his first question, There are so many things on his mind that require deep discussion that he firmly doubts they'll be able to cover it all in one afternoon. With a sigh, he picks the first thought and voices it.

"Molly, if you woke up with someone laying between your legs and across your chest, and they _remained_ in that positon long after they were well awake, what exactly would you make of it?"

She whips her head around to gawk at him. "Which one of you was between the other's legs?" She blinks and furrows her brow, immediately recognizing the strangeness of the statement. "Wait—no, I meant, in this situation who is who?"

"John was laying on me. But, even after he woke up he still stayed in the embrace. He even pointed out that we'd been like that all night anyway, so a few minutes more hardly mattered."

She raises her eyebrows and leans against the counter too, the tray sitting behind her temporarily forgotten. "And…how long did the two of you stay like this once he woke up?"

"Twenty-two minutes," he replies without thought. "Then he just got up and took a shower like it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. What does any of that even _mean?"_

"Wow," mutters Molly, her petite forehead wrinkled in thought. "Well, honestly, Sherlock, it's difficult to say with you two because you've always been so…_liberal _with each other's personal space. With any other situation I would say this is definitely more romantic than platonic, but in this case I'm not entirely sure. Though…didn't you text me last night that John broke up with Laura? Perhaps that means something."

He blows up at the curls on forehead with an annoyed huff. "I don't know. Maybe. At breakfast he told me I was the most important thing in his life, then he said I was sweet, and we started doing something that felt a lot like _flirting_. I don't know. I've never been flirted with so perhaps I just misread the whole situation."

Molly tips her head slightly to the right in contemplation. "Tell me the bits of conversation you remember and I'll decide if it sounds flirty."

He screws his eyes shut and brings forth the memory. Without missing a single word, he recites,

"I beg to differ. You played nurse when I was ill, provided a wonderful morning cuddle, and now you're blushing down to your roots because I admitted how important you are. Sounds to me like you, Mr. Holmes, are sweet," Sherlock hesitates for moment. "Then he kissed the top of my head before he went to work."

He opens his eyes to gauge Molly's reaction, only to find her clutching her hands near chest and literally _swooning, _a huge ridiculous grin on her face_._ "Sherlock!" she exclaims, her voice reaching an unnaturally shrill pitch that makes him cringe. "Sherlock, he bloody called you _Mr. Holmes_! He described it as a "wonderful cuddle"! _He kissed your hair! _God—he all but tore his clothes off and dragged you to bed!"

His eyes widen and his cheeks go ruddy. "I—"

"No, no, don't speak. Don't try to rationalize this," she insists, her voice still several octaves too high. "God, Sherlock why didn't you say that first? I could've saved us a lot of time if you'd just opened with that quote; he's obviously mad for you! I'm so happy for you!" Then, without warning, Molly dives across the room and practically strangles Sherlock into hug.

He counts to three before carefully prying her arms off and stepping back. Alarmed and wary, he says, "Molly. There is hardly any reason to celebrate. I suppose what he said is a bit…flirtatious perhaps, but keep in mind that John is naturally intimate and lighthearted. Not just with me, but with others as well."

She rolls her eyes. "Sherlock. If someone said something like that to _me_, I'd know in a hot second that they were romantically interested. You're right, John _is_ flirty by nature, but he's only _exceptionally_ flirtatious with his those he's attracted to. Don't tell me you cannot see the difference between the way he speaks with friends as opposed to love interests; he's warm to both, but with the lover, he leans in, smiles more, makes a lot of eye contact—I mean, the entire vibe of it feels different! Did he do any of the above when you two were speaking this morning?"

Sherlock nods, but immediately crams down the hope persistently bubbling in his chest. John _did_ smile a lot, make lingering eye contact, lean forward a bit, and the 'vibe' felt considerably distinct, but they are skipping over a very important detail: _John is not gay!_

"Sherlock, all the signs are pointing to—"

"Molly. He can't have…_feelings_ for me. John likes women, remember? And as you can see, I am far from 'feminine'."

Molly takes two steps back, narrows her eyes, and looks Sherlock up and down appraisingly. "Yes, you're certainly not womanly, but I've always thought in certain lights you look quite…" she visibly suppresses a grin. "Well, you look pretty. Just a bit."

"_Pretty?"_ he cries. "Did you just call me pretty?"

Molly laughs gaily, tickled by his reaction. "Well, you are! I mean, the eyes, the curly hair, the lip shape, those bloody cheekbones…" Molly grins. "I hate to say it—actually, that's a lie; I love to say it—but you _are_ a bit pretty. Nothing to be ashamed of, though."

Sherlock grits his teeth. If she grins any harder, her dimples are going to overtake her entire bloody face.

"I'm not—"

"You are."

"_No,_ I—"

"Yes," she interrupts with a smug smile, "you are. Embrace it."

He scowls at her rather petulantly. After a few moments however, the word begins to sound less like a ridiculous claim and more like the compliment (he supposes) it is.

"Pretty," he says slowly, trying the word out. Absently he recites the definition under his breath, "Adjective; pleasing or attractive to the eye." He turns suddenly and stares at her. "Am I really?"

She nods sagely. "Quite." Then, incredulously: "don't you look in the mirror?"

He drums his fingers on the counter behind him and stares at the floor in discomfort. The subject of his appearance has always ranged from boring and unimportant to _severely_ uncomfortable, and for that reason he does not make a habit of contemplating it.

"On occasion," is his prim, vague response.

It doesn't seem like a big deal to him, but Molly looks as if he's just announced that he doesn't believe in showering.

"Oh, that is just…that must change. Right now."

"Wha—"

"Hush up and hold on a minute while I get something." She doesn't wait for his response; without another word she turns on her heel and begins riffling through one of the drawers at the other side of the room. After a moment, she procures a bathroom key.

"Come on, then," she prompts, walking over to him and tugging at his sleeve. Confused but admittedly intrigued, he allows her to guide him for a few feet. After they're in the hallway, he shakes her grip off, straightens his jacket, and falls instep beside her.

"Care to share why we're going to the loo?"

"You'll see," she replies cryptically, looking entirely too pleased with herself for his liking.

For the rest of the walk, he manages to keep his questions to himself—for pride's sake, mostly—but once they reach the men and women's toilets and Molly starts dragging him through the _women's_ door, he puts on the brakes.

"Okay, Molly, if this is in some way connected to my comment about John liking women, I _really _do not think—"

She doesn't allow him to finish; with an eye roll and a slight smirk, she tugs him inside. "No one's in the building today, so you needn't worry about any women popping in here and seeing you."

He stares at her incredulously. "That's the least of my concerns. At the moment, I am mostly concerned for your sanity—or apparent lack thereof—since I can see no justifiable reason for us to be standing in the ladies loo right now. Explain."

She leans against the sink and crosses her arms. "I think the reason you have such a hard time believing John loves you is because for some mad reason you do not think you're worthy. You also seem to think that you're unattractive. Neither are the case, Sherlock."

He blinks owlishly at her, stunned by the accuracy of her words. He is used to being on the delivering end of personal scrutiny, so to suddenly_ receive_ some feels quite strange. His meek silence gives her all the affirmation she needs.

"I not only believe you are worthy of love, Sherlock, I _know_ it. And as for your physical appearance—god, of course John is attracted to you! The entire damn world is!" Pause. "Well, until you deduce their entire lives on the spot of course," she jokes. A reluctant smile tugs at Sherlock's lips. She smiles back and continues. "The way John looks at you—the way he bloody _stares_—reminds me of the way some people behold _art_."

Warmth coils in his chest as the meaning of her words sink in: John is so obviously attracted to him that _other people_ have noticed.

"So, as for why I've dragged you in here: I want you to step in front of the mirror and look—really _look_—so you can see yourself the way John sees you. Maybe then, you'll clear out all that denial and accept that there is a _very _large chance that your feelings are reciprocated."

He isn't quite sure why he is going along with this—this sounds like some rubbish camp exercise for insecure teenage girls—but he knows to some extent, Molly is right. He has never bothered with the appearance of his 'transport', but now that the prospect of romance has come into the equation he reasons it's high time to assess himself.

Still somewhat apprehensive, he walks in front of the mirror. Deep breath.

Sherlock decides to start with the basics: he is rather tall—exactly six feet, one inch—and thin. The latter is mostly a result of his complete disregard for nutrition, but the Holmes family is also naturally quite lean—with the exception of Mycroft, he mentally snickers—so in order to shift a bit of the blame off himself he decides to chalk it up to genetics. He doesn't mind being skinny, though; if anything, it makes the examination of his bones easier, which is quite useful. Interested, he runs a long finger down his sternum, carefully tracing the ribs that branch from it. He turns around and finds that he can see his spine quite clearly when he hunches his shoulders forward, each vertebra neatly in line beneath his suit jacket.

As for his face, he isn't quite sure what to make of it. During his brief _"see, I can socialize!"_ stint at uni, he was called handsome by both genders, but felt so thoroughly uninterested on each occasion that the compliments rolled right off of him. Now, though, he is interested in examining their comments. He stares at his reflection and attempts to review his face unbiasedly.

His cheekbones are high-placed and sharp, making his face appear a bit imposing, and his eyes are a pale shade of blue-grey that he cannot quite define (a boy once told him they were like the ocean during a storm or something, but he can't remember the rest because he stopped paying attention the minute the fool opened his mouth).

He contemplatively holds his bottom lip between his thumb and index finger, examining the shape and feel of it for the first – and probably last – time. After twisting his mouth into several shapes and examining his puckered lips from every angle, he decides they look a lot like his Aunt Cornelia's: full on the bottom with a dramatic upper lip that rises high at its peaks and then dips low into the valley of the philtrum. Or, as someone of a simpler mind might describe it, cupid's bow-shaped.

His neck is long and pale and prominently veined; on one occasion the word "graceful" came up, but since he had no idea how someone's throat could graceful, he just sneered at the girl who'd said it and immediately deduced her entire life, right down to the foot fetish and kleptomania. Suffice to say, she hadn't considered him so_ dashing_ after that.

The only physical trait he actually likes is his hair. It's unruly, wild, black as midnight, and his refusal to comb it neatly back has always been a great source of frustration for both his mother and Mycroft. In Sherlock's opinion, his unkempt curls are not only the embodiment of his reckless, untamable spirit, but a daily act of rebellion as well. He ruffles his hands through his hair and further dishevels it. Satisfied with his brief self-inspection, he steps away from the mirror to glance at Molly.

"That was…interesting," he allows, smoothing down the lapel of his jacket.

She raises an intrigued brow. "So, what did you think?"

He shrugs. "Same as before, to be quite honest. Attraction is based on childhood role models and subconscious influence; in other words, it is quite objective. However, it_ was_ rather nice to hear that John possibly finds me attractive, especially since I do not have a few vital things."

"As in?"

"Well," he deadpans, "I lack breasts, for one."

Molly hops of the edge of the sink. "I'm nearly certain John is b—"

"Don't," Sherlock snaps, cutting her off. He cannot allow himself to think like that, it'll only produce false hope.

Molly gladly ignores him. "Bisexual."

Oddly enough, his entire world does not come crashing down as soon as she voices the word. Okay, so maybe John is bisexual. He might be and he might not be. That's that.

He blinks a few times, before nodding slowly. "Yes, alright. Perhaps."

Molly nods back, pleased. "Let's get back to the lab, yeah?"

. . .

Hours later, while the two of them are examining Fusarium samples through their respective microscopes, Molly's mobile chimes.

Immediately dropping everything, she dives into her pocket for her phone, eyes practically devouring the text. At a nearly terrifying speed, she types a message back, the clicking sounds of her keyboard echoing in the quiet lab. Their reply chimes seconds later and she is back to furiously typing.

"Do slow down, Molly. Wouldn't want to break you phone," advises Sherlock absently, his focus still centered on the most recent sample of mold.

She doesn't listen and continues pounding her fingertips into the keys.

He raises his eyes from the microscope, staring at her with a frown. "Who on earth are you—"

Ah, Obvious.

Sherlock peels off his gloves and safety goggles and turns all of his attention on her. "So," he begins smoothly. "Will you finally divulge the identity of your current love interest?"

She stops typing and looks up at him, stunned. "How did you know I was texting him?"

He scoffs. "I'm far more interested in this man of yours than I am in explaining an easy and rather obvious deduction. So go on, you said you wanted to talk about him."

She slowly puts her phone down on the counter and meets his eyes with a face-splitting grin. "God, Sherlock, there's so much to tell. So much. He's such a great guy, which I never realized even after knowing him for some time."

He raises an interested brow. "You've known him for a long time?" This is certainly news.

She freezes, briefly looking as if she's been caught, but then something occurs to her and the tension seeps from her figure. "Oh, I might as well just tell you. You'll probably figure it out anyway. Keep it to yourself please, but I am currently seeing Greg!"

She squeals and takes his hands in hers, jumping around in some sort of excited dance. She stops when she sees his expression is utterly uncomprehending.

"Greg," she repeats. "I'm dating Greg. I really expected you to have more of a response than this."

He frowns. "Why? Do I know a Greg…?"

Now it's her turn to frown. "What? Sherlock he—" she stops herself and gives him a weird look. "Detective Inspector Lestrade! You've known him for about five years, I can't believe you still do not know his first name!"

Clarity erases the wrinkles from his forehead and his mouth forms an O of comprehension. "Oh! Lestrade, yes. I'm afraid that I was under the impression his name was Gavin or possibly Geoff."

Molly shoots him another incredulous look, but seems too excited to linger on it. "Sherlock, he is just the sweetest, funniest man I have ever met. We've been going on casual dates for the past three weeks now and it's been utter bliss. There is so much I have to tell you!" She grins at him once more before glancing down at her watch. "Would you mind if we packed up right now? It's almost five—wow, time sure flies—which is too late for lunch, but we could always just have dinner at my place."

He considers the proposition for a moment. On one hand, he'll have more time to mull over this morning's John-related events and he'll get to spend time with Molly, but on the other hand, that means he won't see John for dinner tonight. Nothing special is happening, but the thought of missing out on the simple experience of eating takeaway next to John on the couch is enough to make him momentarily hesitate. Only for a moment, though. He reasons that he could use a night of platonic interaction and mental clarity—and lately all of his exchanges with John have been anything but.

He carefully begins replacing the petri dishes of mold back into their tray. "Yes, Molly," he says with a rare smile. "I'd love to."

* * *

**A/N: Let me know what you guys think! **

**Oh, and don't worry, there will be _plenty_ of elaboration of Lestrolly's relationship and Sherlock's thoughts on it in the next chapter. Part two will be up next Sunday. Can't wait! As a bit of a teaser I'll tell you that part 2 includes an excessive amount of red wine, romantic comedies, and what Molly calls a "girl's night in". ;)**

**Until then, darlings! X0X0**


	7. Consulting Miss Hooper Part 2

**A/N: Okay, right off the bat, I'd like to apologize for this super late update! Sunday night my computer crashed, then on Monday there was family drama, and Tuesday I tore my hamstring in a basketball game so I spent the whole day icing it and resting. I'm really sorry, guys! Unfortunately, as the saying goes, shit happens. **

**Personal matters aside, I made sure to make this chapter extra long to make up for the long wait (10.5k words!) **

**Shout out to everyone that commented on the last chapter, you guys are my muses *hugs all around***

**I hope you like it and please let me know what you think in the reviews! Feedback honestly helps so much with the writing process. :)**

***IMPORTANT Q IN END NOTES***

**Enjoy!**

* * *

When Sherlock steps into Molly's flat for the second time in his life, all five senses are flooded with data. The first thing he notices aside from the heavy scent of floral air-freshener, is the row of kitten-themed pillows lined up on her couch. After the initial horror of _that_ particular sight wears off, his eyes wander over to the six potpourri dishes overflowing with pungent dried flowers, the neat pile of hand-sewn coasters on the coffee table, and the stuffed bookcase teeming with trashy romance novels.

Not the mention the three—no, _four _cats that are currently milling about.

Her flat gives him the impression that she in constant preparation for guests, since it appears almost forcefully welcoming. However, the space also possesses an aura of habitual cleanliness and overt femininity, as well as a subtle sort of organization only a scientist might have. All in all, Molly's flat is a fair reflection of herself and Sherlock finds himself quite liking it, despite the overabundance of cat-themed decorations (as well as the actual cats).

Speaking of cats, one of them dawdles over to greet them at the door. "Oh, hello, love!" Molly coos, placing her keys on the table and squatting down to pet the blonde, rotund object of her attentions. The creature proceeds to roll about on the floor while she eagerly strokes its stomach.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Still allowing animals to rule your flat, I see," he comments drily. He sheds his coat and hangs it up by the door, annoyed but unsurprised to find that Molly has ignored his comment and is still doting on her obese pet by the time he's turned around. He is just about to make another comment, when one of the beasts has the gall to dash over and rub itself into his trouser leg. The nerve! He shakes his leg about, but it remains wholly unperturbed. In fact, if anything it only increases in its ministrations after that. Something flashes in its snakelike green eyes and Sherlock _swears_ that it's bloody amusement.

Finally, Molly's wits return to her and she stops cooing at the fat thing. After straightening and brushing stray hair from her blouse, she asks Sherlock what he'd like to eat. Still occupied with his task of prying the black, slinky creature from around his ankle, Sherlock absently replies, "Anything. Eating isn't a large concern of mine."

Molly mumbles something akin to "nutrition is important" and "eating regularly is healthy", which he gladly ignores. He already gets quite enough of that at home from his hyper-aware doctor.

John! Speaking of the devil, he's yet to tell John that he won't be home for dinner.

Sherlock hobbles over to the couch, the black cat still clinging to the hem of his trousers, and pulls out his mobile to compose a text. His fingers are poised to write out a quick explanation and press 'send', when he finds himself with the strangest urge to call John instead. The impulse is an odd one indeed because Sherlock has preferred texting over calling ever since the former became an option.

Though…perhaps this isn't all that odd. He supposes the reason he'd like to call John instead of text him is simply because he'd like to hear John's voice. He winces to himself at how painfully pedestrian that whole line of reasoning is, but finds himself dialing the doctor's number anyway.

After three rings, John answers, "Sherlock!"

"Hello, John, I called to say I won't be joining you for dinner tonight."

There's a beat of silence before John's disappointed voice replies, "Oh, well, alright." Pause. "Er, why though?"

"I'm…" he glances around Molly's strange, feline-filled flat and briefly considers lying. Why, he isn't sure. However the feeling quickly passes and he answers, "At Molly's. She's in the kitchen making dinner while her various breeds of cats harass me."

John chuckles and the sound flows right into Sherlock's chest, filling him to the brim with satisfaction. "What time do you think you'll be back?"

In all honesty, he has no idea. He is usually such a straightforward, organized man, but for once he has no inclination to plan out every last detail. Tonight, he needs a few long hours with platonic company, uncomplicated boundaries, and Molly's patient, soothing advice. After this morning, the last thing he needs is to return to the flat while all of that strange tension shimmers in the air like tangible smoke.

"Not sure, but I'll call you when I'm on my way home. Talk to you then, John," he pauses, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Sherlock," is John's immediate, warmly-spoken reply.

It isn't until he has set the phone face down on Molly's coffee table that he realizes how intimate that whole exchange was. It was almost like—like they were a married couple that'd been separated for the night, or something. The mere inclination to call John and let him know his whereabouts smacks of domesticity and closeness. He hadn't even thought twice about his actions;_ that_ is how second-nature they are.

Stuffed between two large cat pillows, Sherlock sits there and contemplates the whole situation extensively. He's so deep in thought that he doesn't initially notice the fat blonde cat from earlier crawling into his lap and settling there. When the added weight and audible purring finally drag him from his musings, he immediately attempts to shove the beast off, to no avail. The bloody thing just sits there in all of its obese, languidly-blinking glory, lazily licking its front paw and refusing to break eye contact. He glares and it purrs contently in response.

Just when he's about to try his hand at feline-lobbing, Molly pops her head in with a tray of biscuits. "Lasagna is in the oven, so it'll be a bit. I thought we could have a little snack while dinner is cooking." She grins and makes her way over to the couch. When she sees her mammoth of a pet anchored in his lap, Sherlock expects her to immediately apologize and get the damn thing off of his expensive suit. Instead, however, she makes a ridiculous sound that is somewhere between a squeal and the word "Aw". She puts a hand over her mouth and shakes her head, unbearably endeared by the whole situation.

"Sherlock, Draco likes you! He never takes to strangers, but he likes you!" She grins, happily ignoring his glare, and sets the tray on the coffee table.

Sherlock accepts a biscuit and frowns at the cat. "What kind of name is Draco? If I'm not mistaken, that is a constellation of a dragon. This blob of flesh and fur is hardly reminiscent of a power, mythical beast, Molly."

Molly smiles and strokes the creature fondly. "When I met him a few years ago, he was some pathetic skinny little thing on the brink of death. The shelter didn't want him because he was snappy and mean and refused to let anyone touch him, let alone administer the necessary medicines and nutrients. For some reason, though, he immediately took to me. After I officially adopted him, I nursed him back to health with food, medication, and endless affection. Once he was back to his happy self, I decided to call him Draco, as in Draco Malfoy from the Harry Potter series. I know it's a bit silly, but I always liked Draco because he was so beaten down and lost throughout the first several books, until the very end when he finally sought redemption and made a remarkable recovery—" she stops at his blank expression. "And you have no clue what I'm talking about, do you?"

The unnecessary answer to that question is '_No'_, since he completely tuned out as soon as he realized the answer wouldn't be short. "A hairy porter and a book series, I believe?"

She rolls her eyes but doesn't look offended. "I suppose it's my fault for bringing up a pop-culture reference." She glances back at him and _Draco_, her smile returning tenfold.

"Look at the two of you; peas in a pod, you are. Both of you are so antisocial and uninterested, but when you finally meet someone you like you just can't get enough." She gives him a sly look out of the corner of her eye. "Speaking of which, why don't we discuss John?"

"Or," he drawls, "We can discuss Lestrade."

Her cheeks redden at the unexpected retort but her eyes glow with joy. "Well…" she says slowly, taking a bite of biscuit to stall, "After Greg's divorce was completely finalized, I noticed that he began to look…interested in me. At first I wasn't sure what to make of it, since I'd never really felt anything for him, but after a second look I realized how bloody gorgeous he is. His eyes, his smile, and the lovely contrast between his tanned face and salt-and-pepper hair…not to mention the delicious muscles he has hiding beneath his shirt sleeves…" Molly sighs and melts back into the couch, the biscuit held loosely between her fingers. Sherlock smirks at her antics, quite pleased with her obvious happiness.

"Deep breathes, Molly," he instructs, amused.

She shoots a smile in his direction, and continues. "Anyway, it started out as a really casual thing; you know, coffee here and there, maybe an occasional lunch. Then one day he said, 'Molly Hooper, it's about time I take you on a proper date. How does dinner and a film sound?' Jokingly, I said, 'sounds a bit like a high school date to me', and the most adorable blush spread across his face. He started babbling about all of the different things we could do instead if I didn't like the film and dinner idea, until finally I stopped him and said I _did_ love his idea and had only been kidding," Molly laughs, eyes sparkling. "Gosh, Sherlock, I wish you could've seen him; it was so bloody cute. He can be so sweet and thoughtful sometimes."

Sherlock examines all of his knowledge of Gav—_Greg_ Lestrade and cannot match a single memory of the man with 'sweet' and 'cute'. His furrowed brow seems to demonstrate his internal confusion quite clearly to Molly, who wastes no time in explaining. "Okay, I'm sure he hasn't been 'adorable' around you and John or any of the Yarders, but trust me, Sherlock, he _is_. In fact, look at this," she tugs down the high neck of her sweater to reveal a sparkling heart pendant. A proud look glows on her features as she pulls the necklace into full view. "Lovely, isn't it?"

Sherlock's immediate thoughts are _'trite, overdone, and cliché'_, but ever since acquiring his close friendship with Molly, he has learned the immense value in biting his tongue. It isn't a measure of control that he can perform often, but he doesn't want to hurt Molly, so for her sake he puts on a smile and tells her it looks nice.

The self-restraint is well worth it when Molly's face splits into a grin and she squeals, "I know! I nearly fainted when he gave it to me last Friday. God, Sherlock," she puts a hand over his and beams, her cheeks rosy and eyes bright. "I am so, so happy with him."

Sherlock finds himself uncharacteristically unbothered by the contact, and smiles in return. Usually a mere brush of shoulders with someone who isn't John is enough to make him recoil in disgust, but he is finding that the more time he spends with Molly, the less he minds her friendly touches. That isn't to say he'll be ready to _hug_ her any time soon—though perhaps by the end of the month he'll give it a try—but he's certainly no longer opposed to their hands or shoulders touching. It even feels somewhat comforting.

What he finds even more comforting, though, is Molly's blatant happiness. Lestrade is a good man who is clearly head over heels for her, which is excellent because an intelligent, kind girl like Molly deserves that sort of man. However, amidst the secondhand happiness, Sherlock feels the smallest shred of sadness. To see a thriving couple so close to his and John's plane of existence is somewhat disheartening, since his own love life is nowhere near as prosperous.

Admittedly, this morning felt considerably closer to "romantic behavior" than "platonic behavior", but that hardly means anything since John is innately flirtatious and playful. Unintentionally, he allows his inner turmoil to show in the form of a frown. Molly stops smiling and gives him a concerned look. "Sherlock?"

"Molly, when you said Lestrade seemed interested in you, what were the signs?" asks Sherlock.

Molly considers her answer. After a minute she replies, "Well, he began loitering around the lab a lot, often with weak excuses, so I knew he must've been coming 'round to see me. Then, he would make any excuse for us to touch; he would walk very close so our shoulders brushed, or he would reach for something the same time I did so that our hands overlapped," she smiles at the memory, "there was also a certain look in his eyes, a bright, eager look—kind of like an excited puppy, for lack of a better term—whenever he saw me in a crowded room. Some of our conversation were lighthearted, flirtatious banter, but we were also comfortable enough with each other to discuss deeper topics such as family life or our childhoods. It all just felt quite natural and not at all forced."

Sherlock considers this. He and John certainly spend a lot of time together—Sherlock spends nearly all of his available time with John, and John spends about half of his time with Sherlock. As for touching, they've always lacked the boundaries a male-male platonic friendship usually entails, but lately they've become especially close, physically speaking. This morning's cuddle is a perfect example of that. As for the look in John's eyes…well, he can sometimes see fondness and affection there, but they look warm and inviting most of the time anyway so it's hard to tell. Molly's last bit about conversation certainly applies, because he's always felt comfortable speaking with John about a plethora of subjects. John was the first person in his life to actually take an interest in his deductions and make him feel like a genius instead of a freak because of them. John was the first person that didn't judge him. Hell, John was the first to actually care about what he had to say. For that reason, he knows he can talk to John about anything from his plasma experiment to the ridiculous plot holes in one of John's James Bond movies. The two of them certainly share enough banter too—again, this morning is a perfect example—and never once has it felt forced or uncomfortable.

That being said, he still is not sure how John feels about him. He places his half-eaten biscuit in a napkin, drops his head into his hands, and verbalizes his internal frustration. "Molly, we have all of that to some extent, yet John's feelings remain a mystery."

Molly huffs and sinks back into the couch. "You know, I don't understand why you two aren't already involved. It's clear to everyone else that you're both mad about each other, yet there is still reluctance! I mean, according to Greg, the whole Yard thinks you've been shagging for months now. He said last week at a crime scene, you two were sitting on a bench and you were leaning against John while he stroked your hair back, apparently in the middle of a debriefing!"

Sherlock glosses over the shagging rumor for the time being and focuses on Greg's anecdote. "Ah yes," he recalls, "well, it was because I had to explain something particularly tedious to Gregson and John warned me beforehand not to snap at him—which, as you know, is no easy task—so to pacify me—for lack of a better term—he, er, was touching my hair."

Moll gives a stuttered laugh of surprise. "So, basically, John was petting you so you'd play nice?"

Sherlock glares, but finds the intent of the gesture ruined by the undeniable blush staining his cheeks. "Not 'petting'. Just…running his fingers through my hair," at her delighted expression, his frown deepens. "I have a sensitive scalp, okay?" he snaps defensively.

"Mm-hm," she says, a smug smile stretching her lips.

Evidently, glaring is getting him nowhere, so he opts for sullen silence instead. Since his left hand is occupied with holding the biscuit, he uses his freehand to absently stroke over Draco's head. He isn't even aware of his actions until Molly squeals and procures her phone to snap a picture; immediately, he removes his hand from the creature and scowls down at its mellow, unperturbed face.

"Please tell me you're deleting that."

"Nope!" she chirps in response. "In fact I just emailed it to Mrs. Hudson. I'm sure she'll be pleased to see proof of your growing fondness for small animals."

He scowls. "I have no such fondness. I was merely tolerating the creature."

She smiles at him and stands up. "Mm-hm, of course you were. Now I believe I just heard the oven timer ring; dinner's ready!"

. . .

Even though Sherlock has never been a culinary enthusiast to any degree, he has to admit that Molly is a _superb _cook. Dinner is a savory lasagna made with three types of Italian cheeses and a hearty, vegetarian tomato sauce spiced with oregano and basil leaves. As a side dish, Molly whips up a quick garden salad filled with colorful, diced vegetables and almond slices.

He takes the seat across from her and raises his eyebrows at the spread. "I must admit, Molly, I am impressed."

She beams at the praise and spears a bell pepper slice, bringing the bright yellow wedge to her mouth with a grin. "Thank you, Sherlock," she replies graciously.

Dinner passes in a companionable silence that is only broken by the occasional sound of clinking dinnerware. Every now and then, Sherlock steals a glance at Molly and each time he finds that she is deep in thought. Eventually, Molly exits her reverie, dabs at her mouth, and says, "You know, isn't it funny how drastically some people can change your life? I mean, it was only chance that allowed me to end up working at Bart's, where I met you and John; if I hadn't met you, Sherlock, I would have never met Greg. That is so strange, isn't it? We're always on the precipice of a great change that may or may not occur to us; it all depends on numerous unnamable factors."

Sherlock has never cared much for talk of 'fate', but Molly has a point. There were so many little, seemingly unimportant occurrences in his life that have led him to where he is now; a thirty-five year old consulting detective with a kind, albeit cat-obsessed friend and a wonderful best mate/flat mate/current love interest. If just one thing in his past were altered, then he might have never met John. That thought is extremely troubling, though, so he decides against contemplating it too deeply. "I suppose that's true," he admits, "but there's no use in worrying ourselves over it, because the fact is we _did_ meet those people and our lives are the way they are because of it."

"Yes, you're right." She smiles down at her plate as she speaks her next words, "I just…I really cannot express how happy I am to have found Greg. After years of fruitless dating, I have _finally_ found someone who is kind, compassionate, strong, caring, good-humored, patient, intelligent—"

"Shall I grab a thesaurus so you can continue?" asks Sherlock teasingly.

"Oh shut up," she replies good-naturedly. "If I brought up John you'd ramble on for _decades_, alright? You've no room to criticize."

Sherlock smirks and takes a bite of salad, silently conceding her point: he _would _ramble on for decades. His running internal monologue on John has not ceased since the day they met, and in that time he has had the chance to formulate mountains of lovely adjectives to describe him. In all honesty, it's best that they _don't_ open his reservoir of affection and praise; he'd probably never stop talking.

Across the table, Molly looks like she's about to burst with the desire to rave about Lestrade. Taking pity, Sherlock amends, "Alright, you can have thirty seconds of uninterrupted time to talk about Lestrade. Then, we are moving on to another topic, agreed?"

She laughs gaily, a large grin spreading across her features. "Yes, yes, of course. Okay," she takes a deep breath. "I didn't realize it at first, but Greg's arms are positively _pornographic_ in a short sleeve shirt—or, better yet, shirtless!—and that lovely tan…mm. Gorgeousness aside, he is just the most darling man I have ever met. God, Sherlock, on our first date he was so sweet! He took me to this wildly expensive place with chandeliers and classical music, and at the end of the night when he kissed me I swear I felt as lightheaded and wooed as a bloody teenager. It was a heavenly night and the kiss—god, the _kiss_—it was wonderful enough to inspire poems and novels and a bloody film adaptation. He was and is an incredible boyfriend and these past few weeks have been an incredible bliss I would've previously equated with nothing less than Heaven itself." Completely out of breath ad rosy-cheeked, she practically collapses onto the table once she's finished.

Sherlock can't help the smile that plays across his features, as it appears her happiness is infectious. "All done?"

She chuckles breathlessly and takes a sip of water. "Yes. We'll definitely need to periodically revisit the subject, but for tonight I think I'm okay."

Several minutes pass before she has calmed down enough to change the subject. "Speaking of kisses, what was your first kiss like, Sherlock?" asks Molly, as she sections off a piece of lasagna with her fork.

On any other occasion, Sherlock would never even entertain the notion of divulging his personal history with another, but the good food and relative ease he feels around Molly have softened his resolve; without thinking, he says, "I've never kissed anyone."

She lifts her eyes from her plate to stare at Sherlock. The silence thickens as she continues to stare at him wordlessly, trying and failing to come up with a response. After she's made her way through a slew of facial expressions and half-started replies, she finally cries, _"What?"_

His face heats, to his annoyance, but he shrugs to show he doesn't care. "Yes. It hardly matters, though."

At this point, her eyebrows have nearly reached her hairline. "It '_hardly matters'_?!" She takes a sip of water, a frown of genuine bafflement marring her features. "How is that even possible? You're—you're _you_. Intelligent and as bloody beautiful as a Greek statue!"

He scoffs. "Hardly. Beauty is a construct based on childhood role models, significant events during adolescence, and numerous supplementary factors. As for my intelligence, I'm sure you'd know better than anyone that it tends to inspire animosity more often than friendship." He sighs, absently shifting leaves of lettuce around his plate. "Kissing requires two parties that like each other, Molly. Prior to John, no one's ever liked me, nor I them."

She stares at him, still visibly alarmed, but seems to be slowly coming to terms with the information. After a beat of silence, her expression morphs into disbelief as something else occurs to her, "So then you're a…?"

He purses his lips. "Yes."

Molly blinks. "A virgin. You are a _virgin."_

"_Yes,"_ he repeats, annoyed. Is it really such a difficult concept to understand?

She raises her eyebrows. "Wow, I mean…I would have never guessed. But…you know you could have anyone—male, female, and everything in between—if you wanted to, right?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Perhaps. But I don't want males, females, and everything in between—I want John. He's the only person I've ever felt close to, attracted to, in_ love_ with…before John, sex and relationships were below "dusting furniture" on my list of important matters. But now those things have been propelled nearly to the top of the list. As you know, such an adjustment has not been particularly easy."

Molly nods in understanding. "Yes, yes, I'm well aware. I've been right beside you for the whole ordeal, remember? So, how do you feel about having those previously unimportant things at the top of your 'list'? Do you feel better or worse?"

Now _that _is a good question.

The snooty, pretentious genius on one metaphorical shoulder firmly says that this entire experience has made him _worse; _he can no longer coolly detach himself from emotions, he now has a fatal Achilles heel—John—and his priorities, which have always been focused on the Work, now rest almost entirely in relationships and matters of love. On his other shoulder, there is a mellow, humbly intelligent man who firmly says this experience has made him_ better_; not only has his relationship with John grown stronger, but his relationships with others in his life—Molly, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft—have warmed considerably as well. It's almost as if when John walked into his heart, he left the door ajar and everyone else sort of just slipped in when he wasn't looking; in truth, the idea doesn't bother him as much as it once would have.

He has spent his entire life trying to convince himself that being alone is what he wants, but now that his world is bursting with Molly's friendship, John's courtship, love, and a slew of acquaintances-turned-friends, being alone is the last thing he'd like to endure.

With a look of complete certainty, Sherlock replies, "I am better for it, I believe. Even though matters of emotion and sentiment are still bothersome and perplexing at times, I would not wish them away."

Molly smiles at him, pleased with his answer, and the two continue eating in comfortable silence. When Sherlock has made his way through half his meal, he notices that Molly is no longer eating. He looks up and sees she is staring at him with a poorly hidden smile that is a touch too knowing for his liking. "Yes?" he asks, with a frown.

Molly's (bad) poker face immediately breaks into a grin as she says, "Sherlock you realize what this means, right?" She waits a beat and then continues, "Your first kiss will be with John! That is the most adorable, lovely thing I've ever heard."

_That_ is what Molly was trying not to grin at? He rolls his eyes and resumes eating. Honestly, society is far too concerned with the sanctity of 'firsts'. It hardly matters if he's kissed a thousand people or no one; besides, who's to say John is going to kiss him at all? "Molly, I believe you're getting far too ahead of yourself. For one, I couldn't care less about the supposed sacredness of my 'first kiss', and secondly, isn't it a bit presumptuous to think John will kiss me at all?"

She takes a sip of water and shakes her head. "No, of course not. It's really only a matter of time, Sherlock. Very soon, you are going to reach a pivotal point in which the two of you will have to make a final decision; whether you'd like to engage in a full blown romantic relationship or a platonic friendship. Either way, things cannot continue drifting in grey area; it's going to have to be one or the other. Personally, I am placing my bets on the former."

. . .

After dinner, the two make their way back over to the sitting room, Molly clutching a bottle of red wine in one hand and two glasses in the other.

"I don't drink," he says, settling back onto the couch.

"Come on, detective. Throw caution to the wind," she tells him with a grin, filling his glass with the dark liquid.

He peers at it and considers his options. He's never really cared for alcohol and he already knows for a fact that his tolerance for it is embarrassingly low, but…why not?

He nods his head and accepts the drink. "Okay. One glass"

* * *

As it turns out, "one glass" actually means "let's get completely pissed", because an hour and a half later, the two of them have collectively consumed the entire bottle.

From his position on the floor, Sherlock stares at his empty glass and frowns. "More," he slurs, holding the flute high in the air. Always, the obliging host, Molly staggers into the kitchen to grab a fresh bottle. When she returns, she pours them both a new glass and stands up, as if to make a toast.

"I propose," Molly slurs, holding her sloshing wineglass high in the air, "that we have a girl's night in. A sleep over! Movies, red wine, ice cream, bemoaning our love lives—all of it!"

Sherlock takes an elegant sip from his own glass, managing to spill only about a quarter of its contents down his front, which is quite impressive in comparison to Molly whose shirt is currently burgundy red, despite that fact that it was white two hours ago. "Molly Hooper," he begins, drawing out the O's and popping the 'P' with a flourish. "If you haven't noticed, I am not a girl therefore this cannot be a 'girl's' night in."

She nods soberly at that, staring into the depths of her glass as if the answers to the universe rest at the bottom. After a thoughtful pause, she snaps her head back up at him with a wide grin. "Oh! I got it! How 'bout instead of calling it a 'girl's' night in, we call it somethin' really great, like 'Sherlock and Molly's Really Great Night In'?"

Sherlock considers this soberly for a moment before nearly swooning from the sheer genius of it. It's perfect. What a perfect, wonderful thing! It's even got their names in it and everything!

"Oh, yes, that is brilliant." He starts to applaud, but quickly stops because it turns out applauding requires more than one hand—which he simply cannot afford, since one hand must be holding his wine glass at all times.

"Wait, wait, wait," he says, waving his free hand about. "I need to call my lovely John and tell him I won't be coming home tonight. Gimme' one minute, Miss Hooper," he slurs, fumbling around for his mobile. After locating it in the couch cushion, he presses 'one' on speed dial and waits. Meanwhile, Molly tips her head back and stares in amazement at the ceiling fan. He would join her, but then he'd be too distracted to speak with his darling John and that is _not_ okay because John deserves all of his attention, not just part of it.

"Hello?" asks a wonderful voice.

"John!" he cries earnestly. "John, I'm afraid I'm staying at Molly's tonight, okay? It's a sleepover, you see," he grins to himself at how sober he sounds. Oh goodness, he is talented indeed. Even Molly sounds impressed; though, those "ooh" and "aah" sounds _could_ be directed at the fan.

"Sleepover? Really?" He sounds dubious, which isn't as nice as how he sounds when he's happy. Sherlock frowns at that.

In his most consoling voice, Sherlock says, "Don't worry John, I'll be home tomorrow morning, okay? Goodnight for real this time!"

"Well…alright. Goodnight, Sherlock." Sherlock practically melts at hearing his name from John's mouth. It just sounds so lovely! He hangs up and shakes Molly from her fan-induced stupor. "Molly! I've informed John, now on to our great night!"

The first event for "Sherlock and Molly's Really Great Night In" is movies. Molly glides over to her endless collection of DVDs and sweeps an entire shelf into her arms, calling over her shoulder that they are her favorite "rom-coms", whatever that means.

. . .

Rom-coms, he soon discovers, are films in which a man and a woman are thrown into a series of wacky situations and occasionally one flimsy obstacle, before ending up in their inevitable, Hallmark relationship. If he wasn't absolutely drunk off his arse, he probably would have lost interest two minutes into the movie. However, alcohol has a tendency to alter certain perceptions; Sherlock experiences this firsthand when he finds himself practically sobbing right along with Molly as the film's leading male delivers some cliché line in the rain. Then, he and Molly cheer when the two main characters share a passionate kiss and exchange gooey sentimental lines that have no doubt been quoted endlessly. When the credits roll, he puts his wine down—just for one second, though!—and claps in a quick succession, before immediately plucking his glass back up and taking a reassuring sip.

"God," gasps Molly, rubbing at her puffy eyes with a tissue. "That is my favorite movie of all time. Wasn't it just lovely?"

He bobs his head even though he's already forgotten the entire thing. He supposes he can chalk that up to his subconscious stubbornly filtering what stays and what doesn't stay in his Mind Palace. Even completely drunk, his mental filter refuses to allow something as banal as a 'rom-com' linger in his mind for more than a moment.

Oh well. There are about ten more films for them to go through; perhaps one will stick.

. . .

After Sherlock has endured about six "Feel-Good Movies of the Year" and four "Triumphs of the Human Race", he and Molly decide it's time to move on to the next phase of their Really Great Night In: ice cream.

After sliding off the couch and surmounting the obstacle of standing upright, they stumble into the kitchen giggling like school children. Molly places her glass down on the counter and twirls over to the fridge, where she removes a tub of vanilla ice cream, a can of whipped cream, and an assortment of sweet, gooey toppings.

"So, detective, what can I get ya'?"

Sober Sherlock has very little interest in food, least of all sugary treats, but it turns out Drunk Sherlock is absolutely _mad_ for banana splits.

He's actually not quite sure how he even knows what a banana split is—hell, if the solar system isn't important enough to remain in his Mind Palace, why is an _ice cream dish_ floating around in there?—but somehow he finds himself expertly nestling two banana-halves on either side of his three scoops of ice cream, and then drizzling hot fudge and caramel over the whole thing. He sprinkles the peanuts liberally—perhaps_ too_ liberally, since a fair amount end up scattered across her counter as well as the dish—and finishes it off with a bright-red maraschino cherry.

Once Molly has organized her simple Neapolitan dish, the two of them make their way back into the living room.

"Sherlock Holmes," begins Molly, as she contemplates her reflection in the roundness of her spoon. "You know what you should do?"

"Hm?" he asks around a mouthful of fudge and banana.

"You," she points at him with the spoon, "should text John. Right now. You really, really should."

He swallows thickly and begins fishing for another spoonful. "Why's that? I already said goodnight to him, remember?"

She bobs her head, "Yes, yes, but I think you should ask him a question over text so that we can see how he feels about you without actually asking him. It'll be, like, a code question, you know?"

By the time she's finished speaking Sherlock has already completely warmed to the idea. What a brilliant method of figuring out John's feelings! A trick question! Goodness, why didn't he think of something like that? He reluctantly sets his dish aside and grabs his phone from the coffee table. "Alright," he says, straightening his shoulders, "what do I say?"

She taps her chin thoughtfully. "Well, John will be more comfortable if we talk about stuff he's familiar with, so we'll start with women, even though the whole time we'll be hinting at you. Hand me your mobile."

He hands it over, resumes his eating, and watches as she taps out a message. "Sign it with my initials," he reminds her. After a minute, she presses send and hands the phone back.

**_Sent at: 12:30am_**

_John do u like women w/ curly hair or straight hair? SH_

Sherlock looks it over and huffs. "Molly, I would never use so many abbreviations. John's going to know something's strange."

She waves him off. "Don't worry, everyone abbreviates at some point. And it doesn't even matter because the objective is to figure out if he finds you attractive, not to use proper grammar."

He's about to say something else, but then his phone buzzes and they both dive for it. His reflexes are faster, so he ends up with the mobile triumphantly tucked in his hands.

**_Sent at: 12:33am_**

_Curly hair…why? JW _

"Ha!" Molly shouts in victory. "I knew it, Sherlock! I knew it!"

He ignores Molly along with the hopeful fuzz building in his chest, and thrusts the phone back at her. "More."

She grins in triumph but says nothing.

**_Sent at: 12:35am _**

_Just curious. Brown eyes or piercing gray-blue eyes? SH_

Sherlock scans the text then snaps his head up to stare at her. "Really, Molly? As if I would describe my own eyes that way."

"Remember; he doesn't know we're talking about you yet. As far as he knows, you're just being very descriptive."

**_Sent at: 12:37am_**

_Gray-blue I guess. Is this for some kind of experiment? JW _

Gray-blue. Not brown. _Gray-blue;_ John chose _his_ eyes. The fuzzy feeling starts to grow and Sherlock can no longer suppress the wide grin that is spreading on his face. "Here, I'll send the next one," he offers, grabbing the phone back before Molly has the chance to say something smug.

**_Sent at 12:38am_**

_Ideal day: Dinner and film or a dangerous case? SH_

**_Sent at: 12:39am_**

_Case, of course. You didn't answer my question, is this for an experiment? JW_

Molly snags the phone back and scrutinizes Sherlock's face briefly. "Cheekbones," she murmurs under her breath, before quickly typing up a reply.

**_Sent at: 12:40am_**

_Of sorts, yes. Sharp cheekbones or soft features? SH_

Sherlock blanches. "Molly that is not subtle in the slightest. You may as well have written 'Sherlock or women'! He's definitely going to know what we're doing now!"

**_Sent at: 12:42am_**

_Is this a survey or something? JW_

Sherlock stares at the new text and wilts. "I told you the last one was too obvious." He hands her the phone to see for herself and morosely picks at his banana split. "He didn't answer for a reason, Molly. He knows what we're doing and he isn't pleased."

Molly frowns at the screen, then glances up with an apologetic look on her face. Just as she is about to say something consoling, the phone buzzes. Her eyes widen and she looks down. Sherlock watches in nervous anticipation as her features morph from surprised to ecstatic.

Wordlessly, she holds out the phone and turns it to face him.

**_Sent at: 12:45am_**

_Cheekbones. JW _

Before he has the chance to make any kind of response—physical or verbal—Molly is already typing a new text. His brow furrows and he moves towards her to grab the phone, confused by her eagerness to reply when they've yet to properly celebrate the "cheekbones" message.

"Molly, what are you doing?"

She doesn't look up as her fingers continue to dance furiously across his phone's screen. "Sherlock, we have enough tentative data at the moment to complete this experiment. There's just one big question left that we need to ask and then we're all done here."

It takes his typically lightning-fast mind three long seconds to comprehend the meaning of her words. As soon as he realizes her intentions, his eyes widen to the size of dinner plates and he dives across the couch, practically tackling her. Thanks to the element of surprise and the considerable strength of his tall, leanly-muscled frame, he manages to tear the phone from her grasp. As he is pulling himself off of her, phone in hand, Molly retaliates by squeezing the sensitive flesh of his sides, causing him to drop the phone and make a rather embarrassing sound. Wasting no time, she grabs the phone from the carpet, tucks it in her pocket, and then ghosts her hands threateningly over his sides. Still looming over her, he stares down with an incredulous look.

"Did you just…_tickle_ me?"

She smirks. "Desperate times call for desperate measures, Sherlock. And it hardly matters what you do since I already sent the text a minute ago."

"What?" He scrambles off of her in an instant. "Molly, what did you say?"

She offers only an infuriatingly serene smile in return. "See for yourself," she suggests airily, holding out the phone in offering.

He swipes it from her hand and rakes his eyes hungrily over the screen.

**_Sent at: 12:48am_**

_The last part of the experiment requires an answer to this Q: am I attractive? SH_

"Molly Hooper," Sherlock says slowly, in what he hopes sounds like a murderous tone. "What happened to 'tricks questions' and 'subtle hints'? This is horrible. John…John doesn't like men, Molly! So of course he's going to say no. It's only logical, okay? We needn't waste our time waiting around for an answer, in fact we might as well just shut the damn thing off and call it a night."

Feeling restless, he jumps off the couch and begins pacing, his mind a jumbled mess of (stupid!) hope and (unpleasant!) nervousness. It's ridiculous, but the reason he has never bothered to ask John something as simple as this—a question of one's physical beauty is trivial, really—is because of the stubborn, deeply rooted fear of rejection stirring in the back of his mind. It's illogical to expect anything less than rejection from John—at least in regards to Molly's question—yet there is still some foolish part of him that hopes the answer will be perhaps…yes.

Molly watches him wear a path in the carpet, her disposition silent and calm. Eventually, she plucks a ginger cat from the floor and sets it in her lap to pet. "Sherlock," she begins soothingly, "everything John has done in the past few weeks—hell, in the past few _years_—indicates that at the very least he finds you attractive. You say he won't because he's "straight", but what you have to understand, Sherlock, is that one's sexuality does not have to be black or white. Sure, John has only dated women, but that doesn't mean the right bloke couldn't catch his eye; and in this case, love, that right bloke is _you_. I am quite confident in what John's answer will be, so kindly stop marching across my carpet, take a seat, and resume eating your ice cream." Seemingly in agreement, the ginger creature mews loudly.

Sherlock frowns, but does as Molly asks and resigns himself to the couch once more. The half-melted banana split no longer looks appetizing, so he forgoes eating and instead busies himself with imbibing even more wine. He watches Molly's expression contort into disapproval.

"Are you sure you want to drink more? We've had quite a lot already," she reminds him, punctuating the statement with a little hiccup of proof.

He frowns into the glass, hazy eyes fixated on his wobbly, blood-red reflection. "That may be true, but I am feeling far too sober at the moment."

Molly purses her lips. "Well…" After a moment of indecision she finally reaches over and pours herself a fresh glass. "Might as well keep up with you, I suppose." She takes a long sip, gathering her thoughts as she savors the wine. "Sherlock, you really shouldn't feel so down. For one, John hasn't even given an answer yet. For all we know he could've fallen asleep."

Sherlock places the glass on the table and curls himself around one of the kitten-pillows, squeezing the cushion tightly to his chest for comfort. "Yes, perhaps," he intones, though his voice lacks any semblance of optimism. The two fall into a semi-comfortable silence that is only disturbed by the occasional purr or meow.

Minutes pass before Sherlock's mobile—finally!—buzzes. He stares at it on the coffee table with wide eyes and frozen muscles. When he glances at Molly, she is in a similar state; however, she recovers from the shock much quicker than Sherlock and hastily leans forward to pluck it up. Guarding the screen with her palm, she looks up at him. "Shall I read it aloud or look at it first, then show you?"

He digs his nails into his palm, producing a neat row of angry, red crescents all across his hands. "Read it then show me," he manages.

He watches in frustration as she slowly reads the entire thing with an unchanging, mild expression. If he were in any state to deduce, he could probably figure out if the text is good or bad based on her little, nearly imperceptible 'tells', but at the moment his brain is practically pickled with wine, so the most he can manage is the weak conclusion of _'I don't know'._

Finally, she hands the phone over, face down. Her expression gives away absolutely nothing, which is actually quite impressive; he must remember to commend her for it later. With a shaking, nerve-wracking breath, he flips the phone over and reads John's response.

**_Sent at: 1:00am _**

_Is that what all of these weird texts have been about? Why didn't you just ask me that Q in the first place? And yeah, of course you are, with your bloody cheekbones and designer suits and whatnot. JW_

**_Sent at: 1:01am_**

_I'm positively knackered. Goodnight, I'll see you tomorrow. JW _

Sherlock blinks at the phone's screen in incomprehension, his features blank and expressionless. However, once the meaning of the words sink into his mind, an irrepressible grin spreads across his face. This is grand, this is bloody magnificent. He is drunk, happy, filled with ice cream, and to make it all even _better_, John thinks he's attractive! He doesn't care for stupid, soft feminine features, he likes _Sherlock's_ features. Whether he has said so outright or not is irrelevant because Molly's genius plan _worked!_ Molly raises her half-full glass to his, "Cheers!"

Happiness bubbles inside Sherlock's veins like champagne foam spilling over the lip of a bottle; bright, lazy joy flowing through his chest, his heart, all the way out to his tingling fingertips and toes. It's such a delicious, dreamy feeling that he finds himself grinning with his teeth on display and eyes crinkled at the corners. It's such a rare contraction of muscles that for a moment he wonders if he's even doing it properly.

It is only then—after immense relief and happiness have drained him of all energy—that he realizes how bloody _drunk _he is. He flops down on the couch beside Molly and feels suddenly exhausted. "I think I may have a quick kip…" he tells her around a yawn. She nods drowsily in return and mumbles something indiscernible back.

The last conscious thought he has is somewhere along the lines of _'John thinks I'm pretty too'_, and then oblivion swallows him whole.

* * *

In all of his life, Sherlock has never wondered what it would feel like to have a giant, periodically-pounding drum located inside his head. However, he quickly finds the answer upon waking the next morning, because his skull is throbbing as if an entire percussion ensemble spent the previous night and subsequent morning thrashing about his brain. With a groan he sits up as slowly as possible, taking care to move only as much as is strictly necessary. After his sore, bloodshot eyes are greeted with overly-bright lights and an ensuing migraine, he takes in his surroundings:

He is currently draped across the couch, wrapped in a blanket—normal—and Molly's winter coat—not as normal. His nice, expensive, eggshell-colored button-down is now stained irrevocably with a bib of wine and a wide variety of ice cream toppings, and his hair is no longer curly and wild, it is a matted, black _bird's nest. _Sherlock winces at the sickeningly sweet smell of wine that is lingering—_everywhere_—and the arid, tacky feeling inside his mouth. He needs a toothbrush _now _and there is no way he'll make it all the way back to Baker Street to retrieve his—even the thought of trekking to the _kitchen_ is daunting at the moment.

Without really thinking it through, he clumsily pats down his pockets for his mobile. When he locates it and switches it on, he hisses at the painfully bright screen, recoiling to the point that he nearly drops the phone entirely. With squinted eyes, shaking hands, and a pounding migraine, he manages:

**_Sent at: 10:15am _**

_Jon, need toothbrsh pls. mollys. sh_

The thought of maintaining proper grammar and spelling at a time like this would be utterly _laughable_, if only the notion of sound did not make him feel anything but humorous.

He drops his head onto the arm of the couch, blearily surveying the room. Molly is slumped over in the loveseat, all four cats wedged around her, with Sherlock's coat and what looks like a tablecloth draped over her lap. She's still sound asleep, blissfully unaware of the dreadful awakening fate has in store.

As Sherlock slowly massages his throbbing temples, he marvels at the fact that some people live the better part of their lives in this horrid state. John's sister being one of them, of course. Sherlock is no stranger to the messy aftermath of a binge—cocaine wasn't always brilliant and lovely—but a drug-induced hangover is absolutely nothing compared to this hell. That conclusion could be due to his recent unfamiliarity with drugs—he's lived several solid years of sobriety, now, so his memories of the experience are starting to fade. Still, he remembers cocaine hangovers being messy, yes, and certainly unpleasant, but mostly they just left him feeling jittery and desperate for more. This alcohol-induced hangover however, makes him feel sluggish, drained, tired, and nauseous. Merely collecting these sensations into a conscious thought is enough to deplete him of half his energy.

The other half is briskly used to aim his mouth towards the conveniently place trash bin beside the couch as he begins retching unexpectedly. After several long, disgusting heaves, he emits low groan and rolls on his back to ease the rising nausea. Once he feels it's safe to reopen his eyes, he shakily picks up his phone again and sends out another few texts.

**_Sent at: 10:20am_**

_Jhn toothbrsh now and brng meds 2 pls. sh _

**_Sent at 10:21am_**

_also sum clothes. sh_

He rests the mobile on his chest and drapes a forearm over his eyes, attempting to expel the headache with sheer force of willpower. Unsurprisingly, this method is rather ineffective. Decades or perhaps minutes later, his phone buzzes. With one eye open he lifts the phone, angling it so he can see the smallest amount of blinding brightness possible.

**_Sent at: 10:25am_**

_Sherlock, are you okay? Why are you typing like that? JW_

**_Sent at: 10:25am_**

_And what do you need medicine for, are you hurt? I'm on my way over to Molly's right now, I'll be there in ten minutes. JW_

He smiles briefly at that. John; reliable, concerned, lovely John. Something in the back of his brain—a memory of last night perhaps—stirs at the thought of John, but straining his mind to any extent hurts like hell so he doesn't bother. There will be plenty of time to think everything over once his sobriety and cognitive functions have returned to him.

In the meantime, he drags himself over to the kitchen. He half-remembers something beneficial about hydration, so he hunches over the sink and angles his mouth underneath the tap, messily drinking water for five minutes or so. With a thoroughly wet shirt and sated thirst, he trudges back into the sitting room to check on Molly.

The process in which she wakens is morbidly reminiscent of a damp-winged butterfly emerging from its cocoon. Only, Molly looks anything but fresh.

She opens her eyes blearily, wincing at the migraine that has no doubt just assaulted her vision. Her little entourage of cats arise with her, stretching luxuriously in all of their sober, untainted glory. She starts to yawn but then the motion and sound of it arouse another wave of painful throbs in her head, causing her to cringe and reflexively press a hand to her forehead. After a low groan and more cringing, she mutters, "I feel like utter shite."

He makes a sound of assent in the back of his throat since verbal responses surpass his current skillset, and tentatively lowers himself back onto the couch. Sherlock frames his face with his hands, his thumbs at his chin while his index and middle fingers rub slow, methodical circles to either temple. At some point, Molly leaps up and dives into the bathroom, where the wine, ice cream, and lasagna make their reappearance in the form of loud, unpleasant retching.

Sherlock tries to calm himself with his usual method—organizing all one hundred and eighteen periodic elements by electronegativity, atomic radii, and metallic character—but the mental exertion is enough to make him clench his jaw and cringe in pain. After that, he resigns himself to the idea that focusing on anything in this state is nearly impossible. With a deep breath, he closes his eyes and thinks of blissful, blank nothingness.

. . .

"Sherlock?"

Somewhere between wakefulness and unconsciousness, a lovely, warm voice floats into his ear. There is a hazy visage hovering over him, all tan skin and blue eyes and feathery grey-blonde hair that he fleetingly wants to run his fingers through. The smell of cinnamon trails through the air like lazy plumes of smoke, shrouding the room and engulfing his senses. After ten minutes or ten years—he can't quite tell—the wonderful voice repeats itself, and this time its wonderful hand reaches out to touch his—what is it called? Oh yes—_shoulder_, shaking him gently. He feels himself rumble something in reply, but he's only aware of it because he can feel the vibrations in his throat. Coherent thoughts are a bit ambitious at the moment, as everything seems to slip away as soon as it occurs to him. The visage blinks its beautiful cerulean eyes at him and he wants to just dive right in; swim around and tread water in those bright blue pools.

"Sherlock!"

"Ah!" Sherlock cries involuntarily, scrambling awake, his limbs flailing about. Now fully conscious, he realizes it is John standing over him, not a mysterious hazy figure. "John?" he croaks.

John nods and kneels beside him. It is then that Sherlock realizes he is lying on a couch, meaning that they're still at Molly's. With an expression that is equal parts amused and caring, John reaches out a cool palm to stroke back Sherlock's messy, tangled curls. Past the point of coyness, Sherlock audibly sighs and relaxes back into the couch, eyes fluttering shut in peace and comfort.

"Had quite a bit to drink, I see," John observes, purposefully keeping his voice low for Sherlock's sake. "You and Molly are probably the last people I assumed would get pissed like this."

He makes another ambiguous noise in the back of his throat; something between a groan and a hum. John rolls his eyes, but his hand does not cease in petting back Sherlock's hair, much to Sherlock's relief. "I took care of Molly. She told me to call Greg; did you know they were dating? Anyway, he's on his way over to take care of her, so you and I can head back home now. Do you think you'll be able to stand or will I have to carry you to the cab?" John's voice sounds partially joking, but there is an underlying tone of seriousness. Sherlock knows in an instant that if he says so, John Watson will somehow find a way to carry his six foot tall, eleven stone frame all the way out of this flat, down the stairs, and into a cab, despite his significantly smaller stature. Just the thought that John would willingly do something like that is enough to inspire Sherlock's muscles to work in unison and make him stand.

With John's arm looped around his waist, he hobbles to the front door. "Molly!" he shouts at the door, because he can't afford to waste the energy is would take to turn his head. From somewhere within the flat, she responds with croaking noise that sounds somewhat like his name. "Call you," he hollers back, hoping she understands that although neither of them are currently in any state to converse, he'd definitely like to do so once they're both sober.

After the perilous, endless journey from Molly's flat to the cab out front, Sherlock is bone-tired and his head is absolutely killing him. The moment they slide into the cab, he leans over and allows his head to fall unceremoniously into John's lap. Unperturbed, John continues to soothingly run his fingers through Sherlock's hair while he hums something quiet and lulling under his breath. Eventually, as he grows even more relaxed, Sherlock tosses on his side and nestles his face into John's jumper-clad abdomen, hooking his free hand around John's back and pulling him closer. John just chuckles to himself, fondness heavy in his tone, and allows the detective to melt against him and fall into a brief, but much-needed slumber.

* * *

**A/N: So, what did you think? Let me know in the reviews, please and thank you! I love you guys so much and it means the world when you give your feedback and opinions :)**

**Summer's getting really busy right now, so I can't promise it'll be updated by this Sunday but I'll try my best! (just remember, even if I don't update 100% on time that doesn't mean I'm abandoning the story; I fully intend to finish this!:))**

**Guys, check out the poll I've just posted about this story! Feedback there will help just as much as a review! But, if you're like me and are too lazy to look at the poll, then answer this important Q:**

_**Johnlock smut yay or nay? How are you guys feeling about that? At most, It'd be T-rated stuff like kiss smut and some over the clothes action. OR are you guys completely opposed to it? The alternative would be chaste descriptions of kissing only and no 'action' whatsoever. Tbh, I'm fine with either. This is really important, though, so let me know what you think! **_

**Until next time, darlings! X0X0**


	8. A Holmes Family Reunion

**A/N: Hey guys! I'm posting this one now instead of Sunday because I have a weekend-long basketball tournament, and I wasn't sure if I'd have the chance to put it up. This is one was so much fun to write, I hope you guys like it! :)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock spends the remainder of the cab ride squeezing his eyes shut and attempting to will away his rising nausea, while John mutters placations and brushes his curls away from his forehead. When the cab stops, Sherlock mutters "_Alter ipse amicus."_

John helps him from the car then watches as the cabbie drives away with no payment. "Still can't believe you can do that. What did that phrase mean?"

"Friends are an extension of self," he mumbles, staggering a bit.

As John heaves him up the front steps, Sherlock notices the crooked knocker and reflexively scowls. The knocker is always perfectly straight, except when a certain _someone _pops by and succumbs to his obsessive-compulsive behaviors. This is a rather unpleasant discovery for Sherlock—whose head is still pounding quite painfully, by the way—because the last thing he needs is a little check-up from his overbearing brother.

Ever-vigilant, John notices his distress and pauses in the threshold. "Sherlock, you alright? If you think you're going to be sick again, there's a bush right there—"

He would wrinkle his nose in disgust, but the fact is, he's already vomited in two unsavory places—the bin in Molly's sitting room and then into a bag in the cab—so the whole bush idea isn't too farfetched. Thankfully, he isn't currently on to brink of retching; instead, he feels ill for an entirely different reason.

"I'm fine," he assures distractedly, hobbling his way into the building. John secures an arm around his waist and allows Sherlock to lean heavily against him as they scale the stairs. Not for the first time, Sherlock notes that John is far stronger than his—petite—frame might lead one to believe. As they reach the final step, Sherlock sighs. "Unfortunately, John, I believe we have company waiting for us inside."

"Company? Who?"

With a bland smile devoid of all pleasure, Sherlock reaches a long arm and pushes open the unlocked door to their flat. When it has opened enough to reveal the sitting room, John's question is promptly answered.

There, sitting in his flat and calmly eating biscuits, is the last bloody person Sherlock would like to see at the moment.

"Hello, brother dear," Mycroft greets mock-pleasantly, dabbing the corners of his mouth for crumbs.

His head is throbbing, his eyes are sore, and every muscle in his body is rioting against the notion of remaining upright for much longer. He absolutely does _not_ need this right now. Without another thought, Sherlock hunches down and buries his face in John's shoulder. "Please, John, I don't care what you have to do, but get him out of here," he begs, his voice muffled by the material of John's jumper.

John gives his back a few sympathetic pats. With Sherlock still stooped over him, John addresses Mycroft. "As you can see, Sherlock is not feeling all that well, so it'd be best if you came back another time, Mycroft."

Mycroft gives John a patronizing hum of acknowledgment, but otherwise ignores him. "I'm afraid you can't hide in John's jumper forever, Sherlock," Mycroft chides

"Oh, but I can," Sherlock replies into John's shoulder.

When Mycroft doesn't say anything in return, Sherlock reluctantly lifts his face from the curve of John's neck.

Unsurprisingly, he finds that Mycroft is smirking. "Now, now, Sherlock, is this any way to treat your big brother?" His eyes briskly sweep Sherlock's form, deductions and conclusions visibly snapping into place behind his dark irises. "It's so lovely to see your horizons have broadened, though I must admit I always thought your tastes were a bit more refined than five-pound wine from the supermarket."

Sherlock glares. On any other day, a clever retort would be ready on his lips, but at the moment the dying need to collapse onto a piece of furniture—the bloody _coffee table_ is looking inviting at this point—is far stronger than his urge to banter with Mycroft.

With determined, unsteady steps, he makes his way over to John's chair. Of the two chairs, John's is far more comfortable and pleasantly well-worn; his, on the other hand, is comprised of imposing black leather and sharp angles; quite the opposite of what he'd like to relax into at the moment.

With the gracelessness of a man in agony, Sherlock flops down into John's chair and tucks his knees to his chest. He cares very little that he is currently tucked into a pathetic, hung-over ball in front of not only the object of his affections, but his smug, pretentious brother as well.

John looks as if he's going to protest, but thinks better of it as he takes in the sad sight of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, curled miserably in the fetal position. With a sigh, John walks over to the linens closet, procures a blanket, and proceeds to drape it over him with a look Sherlock can only describe as begrudging affection. "That's my chair, but I'll allow it just this once," John mumbles under his breath as he settles into Sherlock's chair. Upon sitting, John's face immediately scrunches up in discomfort. "What the bloody—this chair is dreadful! How do you sit in it all the time? It's about as comfortable as a metal box wrapped in leather."

Sherlock shrugs and nuzzles the side of his face into the warm material of John's chair. "Yours however is quite nice and soft. And it smells like you as well," he buries his nose into the upholstery for a moment. "Cinnamon, shampoo, a bit of cologne, and body soap," He considers commenting on how delicious that scent combination is, but catches himself just in time_. _

John rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Nose like a bloodhound, I see. However, you got one thing wrong: I do _not_ smell like bloody cinnamon."

"You do. It's a sweet, spicy smell. Quite nice, actually."

John laughs, a bright smile adorning his features. "Really. Well I suppose I'll take that as a compliment, if you meant it as such."

"I did mean it as a compliment."

Fondness shines in John's eyes. He's on the brink of continuing their banter, when Mycroft clears his throat. "If you're quite done flirting with Dr. Watson, Sherlock, then perhaps I can tell you why I am here."

Sherlock tugs the blanket around his shoulders and stubbornly shuts his eyes. "Oh, you mean you didn't come just to spend some quality family-time with me?"

With a bland smile, Mycroft replies, "I'm afraid not. I have come here to warn you."

The only thing Sherlock despises more than Mycroft's pretentiousness is his bloody _ambiguity._ Sherlock is well aware that Mycroft is being purposefully vague to coax him into asking for clarification, which is something he absolutely _loathes_ doing. Sherlock narrows his eyes and grits out, "A warning for what?"

Mycroft takes his time, unhurriedly eating another biscuit and then dabbing at his lips. After a solid thirty seconds, he meets Sherlock's impatient gaze. "Why, of Mummy's impending visit, of course."

As far as sobering statements go, that is the verbal equivalent of a bucket of ice water. Immediately alert, Sherlock sits straight up and tosses the blanket from his shoulders. "Mother?" he croaks in the most undignified manner. "When?"

Mycroft smirks. "Well, brother dear, she intends to surprise you by popping in tomorrow. In the evening around dinnertime, I presume."

Numbly, Sherlock asks, "Why?"

"Apparently you failed to mail her your weekly letter and she grew _concerned_," Mycroft drawls, though the elongation of the word 'concerned' makes it quite clear he does not mean it sincerely.

Still unable to fully process the news, Sherlock drops his head in his hands and groans. The headache that had amicably began to ebb away is now back with a vengeance. "Mycroft, I just spoke to her on the phone two days ago. Who _cares _that my bloody weekly letter was a few days late?"

Mycroft helps himself to another biscuit. "You hardly need an answer to that, Sherlock, but I shall humor you anyway:_ Mummy_ cares. Besides, we both know she's been looking for an excuse to stop by for ages now; your little slip up was the perfect opening. You know," Mycroft continues, his voice now edged with faint annoyance, "you will not be the only one suffering from this. Because of your negligence, Mummy will once again have the opportunity to stick her nose into my personal life; if she so much as_ attempts_ to 'set me up' again, I promise you, Sherlock, I will fabricate a national crisis and flee, leaving you all alone with her and her scrutiny."

Sherlock groans and hides his face in the arm of the chair. "Fine, Mycroft," he says tersely, his voice muffled by the upholstery. "Will you leave now?"

Mycroft scoffs at his dramatics, but complies. "Very well. I trust Mummy will want some sort of family dinner tomorrow night after she has interrogated John, so I suppose I will see you then, Sherlock." He stands up and leads himself to the door, umbrella swinging at his side.

"Interrogate?" echoes John. Mycroft pauses in the doorway and smirks. "Did I say interrogate? I meant to say, after she has _met_ you, John. Apologies," he drawls in an entirely unapologetic tone. "Good day, doctor. See you tomorrow night, drama queen."

The door slams shut far louder than necessary, and the sound sends waves of pain through Sherlock's head. He stabs his thumbs into his temples and rubs aggressive circles, endeavoring to ward away the quickly-worsening headache. "Did he…did he call me a drama queen?" Sherlock asks, once the pain has ebbed away enough for him to speak.

"He did indeed," answers John succinctly. "Now, what would you like to do? I'd suggest sleeping it off, but I know how tedious you find sleep."

Sherlock tugs the blanket around his shoulders and rests his forehead against the upholstery. "Some very strong pain medication sounds heavenly right now. And you're right; sleep is tedious. I'll just watch telly with you on the couch."

John raises an eyebrow. "What if I had other plans for today?"

Sherlock groans in complaint and pulls the blanket over his head like a hood. "Then cancel them," he demands petulantly.

John rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Yeah, yeah, you're just lucky I don't have work today. I'll be right back with the pills, okay?"

While John roots around in their medicine cabinet, Sherlock mentally reviews last night's events. Everything is sort of a vague blur, but he has distinct memories of texting someone with Molly's assistance, watching an inordinate amount of trashy films, and eating ice cream. He isn't sure which is most shocking, to be honest.

He closes his eyes and attempts to dredge up the memory of who he was texting, but the search proves fruitless as his headache is making it impossible to enter his mind palace. It is then that he realizes he can just check his phone's history; with a scowl, he digs in his pocket for his mobile, annoyed that it took him so long to arrive at such an easy solution.

Sherlock scans his history and finds about a dozen texts exchanged between him and John. His heart stills in his chest and he frantically scans each one. He's too busy spiraling into a whirlwind of embarrassment and horror to fully read every single text, but he catches key phrases such as _"Sharp cheekbones or soft features?"_ and the dreadful, _"Am I attractive?"_

Sherlock is just about to toss his phone across the room and vow never to text anyone again, when his eyes land on John's latest message. _"Yeah, of course you are, with your bloody cheekbones and designer suits and whatnot." _

He blinks numbly and rereads it, certain that he's misunderstood.

_Yeah, of course you are_

Alright, not much room for misinterpretation there.

_Of course you are_

Sherlock drops his phone and stares at nothing, his eyes growing glassy as he recedes into his musings. John thinks he is attractive and apparently has no qualms about telling him such. That is certainly…interesting. He is torn from his reverie when John reenters the room.

"Here, I have the pills. What do you feel like watching?" John asks, medicine in one hand and the remote in the other.

Still a bit shaken by his discovery, Sherlock absently replies, "Anything is fine."

"James Bond it is," John announces. He hands Sherlock the Paracetamol and moves over to the television to pop in the DVD.

"Do you need help to the couch or are you okay?"

Sherlock stares at the couch and it seems miles away from John's chair, but his pride will not allow him to ask for assistance. It's twelve feet away; he can handle a measly twelve feet. "I'm fine,' he assures.

After he's made it to the couch five grueling minutes later, John takes the seat beside him and presses play. "Here," he offers, dropping a pillow into his lap and patting it. "Lay your head down, it'll feel better."

The offer sounds too lovely to question, so without further thought, Sherlock lays on his back and drops his head into John's lap. The film begins and John proceeds to stroke Sherlock's hair back from his forehead as if it's the most natural thing in the world, his fingers raking pleasantly against Sherlock scalp and getting caught up in his curls. Sherlock sighs in contentment and closes his eyes, the movie's theme song droning quietly in the background.

The rest of the day is spent in a similar fashion: Sherlock sleeping on and off while John makes his way through his entire collection of Bond movies.

By the time night falls, the headache and nausea are almost entirely gone, and the placidity of the day's events leave Sherlock feeling more at peace than he has in a ages.

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock strolls from his bedroom feeling a million times better than the day before. No headache, no foul taste in his mouth, no nausea, and when he goes into the loo to stare at his reflection, he looks _human _and not like some horrid undead creature…It's like bloody Christmas. His splendid mood is only improved when he strolls into the kitchen and sees John's delightful, sleep-mussed profile preparing their customary morning tea.

"Morning," he greets brightly.

John turns to him and smiles, tea in hand. "Feeling better I take it?"

Sherlock grins with all of his teeth and does a quick pirouette across the tiled floor. "Yes, John, I feel wonderful." It is incredible how great a good night's rest and a complete lack of alcohol feel. Devoid of all toxins, headaches, and hangovers, Sherlock almost feels as if he could burst out in song.

John laughs at his uncharacteristic cheeriness and reaches up to briefly squeeze his shoulder. "Glad to hear it, Sherlock."

It is only then that he realizes how close their proximity is; John is mere inches away. From this distance Sherlock can clearly identify his signature scent of cinnamon, shampoo, and some exotic, heady substance that is simply _John_. It is utterly intoxicating. Sherlock's heart stills in his chest as he locks eyes with John; he finds himself getting lost in the bright, cerulean depths of his irises and completely forgetting any notion of coherent thought. The most baffling thing, however, is the way that John is staring back. His gaze is open and warm and tinged with something significant, something Sherlock can't quite put a finger on, and his deliciously shaped lips are slightly parted as if to appear inviting…

Sherlock is about ninety-nine percent ready to just lean down and kiss John right here in their kitchen, when the bloody microwave chimes and shakes them both out of the moment.

John blinks rapidly, as if waking from a daze. "I'll, uh, I'll get that."

John turns around to open the microwave, but Sherlock remains frozen in place, his spine as stiff as a rod. The frustration and bloody _desire_ that are coursing through his veins are enough to make him either scream, laugh hysterically, or do something entirely rash. When John turns back around, Sherlock decides on the third option.

Without another thought, he ducks down, cradles the side of John's face in his large palm, and leans forward to press a kiss against his cheek. Just as quickly as it starts, it ends, and Sherlock pulls back with a brief smile. He can't quite think of something clever on the spot, so he just follows up with the first thing to pop into his head. "Good morning." The moment the words leave his lips, he feels like an idiot. _Good morning?_ He already said that! Christ now he's being repetitive _and_ spontaneous…what has become of the once logical Sherlock Holmes?

John blinks in surprise, but his confused expression gradually morphs into one of fond amusement. He gives a little laugh. "Yes, good morning to you as well. Would you like toast or biscuits with your tea?"

Later, when they're sitting across from each other, eating their respective dishes and reading their preferred modes of entertainment—for John, the football section of the paper and for Sherlock, an online editorial on forensic entomology—Sherlock internally marvels at how little the kiss affected John. Initially John was mildly surprised, but that quickly faded, and in no time he seemed entirely unbothered. Sherlock drums his fingers absently against the table and stares unseeingly at his laptop screen. If John doesn't mind Sherlock kissing his cheek, and he also doesn't mind kissing Sherlock's hair, would John mind if Sherlock perhaps kissed him on the _mouth?_ As in, an actual kiss?

Sherlock's heart beats wildly in his chest at the notion, but he quickly crams down his excitement. He cannot allow himself to get hopeful; blind optimism will just make it even harder when his hopes do not come to fruition. The reserved, wary man on one shoulder firmly tells him not to subject his very _straight_ best friend to his stupid fantasies. On his other shoulder, a scientist coolly explains that this can be considered an experiment of sorts; to establish a set of guidelines, one must test the boundaries, yes? Seeing how much John is willing to accept would be a delightful, prolific experiment.

However, there is one fatal flaw in that line of reasoning: it runs the risk of losing John's friendship. In the past, he lived his entire life with only enemies and acquaintances with various degrees of tolerance, but now that he has met someone like John—someone who cares about him, enjoys his company, and sticks by his side no matter what the situation—there is no way he can go back to living in cold solitude. The mere thought makes his chest ache. Therefore, running a serious of experiments to 'test John's boundaries' could easily back fire and cause him to lose John forever.

"Hey, why do you look so upset? Is it because your mum's coming round tonight?" asks John, concerned.

Sherlock blinks out of his daze and focuses on the man across the table. He hadn't realized his expression was growing gloomy right along with his thoughts. With a half-hearted smile—mostly for the sake of reassuring John—he says, "Yes, that's what it is." Which is actually a complete lie, considering he completely forgot that Mummy was even coming, due to the distracting events of this morning. Now that he has been reminded, he is almost relieved to focus his bad feelings towards_ that_ troubling notion, instead of what he has uncreatively dubbed, his 'John Problem'.

John takes a sip of tea and folds his paper in half, laying it down on the table. "So what's your mum like? I've never actually heard you talk about any of your family, except for Mycroft."

"Well, my father died when I was seven; Mycroft had just turned fourteen at the time. Prior to my father's death, my mother was quite lively and immersed herself in several interests, ranging anywhere from cooking to publishing books on the principles of quantum mechanics. She is certifiably a genius," he states, completely blasé despite the considerable impressiveness of it. "After his death, she became quiet and somewhat subdued. There were two years in which she did little but read before the fireplace and stare out the window at the garden my father created for her. Eventually, her spirit returned and she once again became the strong, intelligent woman that she had been in the past."

"Wow, I mean, she sounds incredible, Sherlock. Why are you and Mycroft so stressed out about her visiting?"

Sherlock smiles drily. "Well, along with her love for knowledge and exotic cuisine, she also has a penchant for interfering in our lives; she's quite the control freak, for lack of a better word. When I was a teenager and young adult, she often tricked me into social situations or _dates_ in hopes that I would meet someone nice and settle down. She did the same for Mycroft, but he managed to appease her by bringing the occasional boyfriend or girlfriend along for Christmas dinner. Not that he cared for them much; he only did so to keep her match-making endeavors at bay." He sighs. "She always means well of course, but neither of us enjoy anyone—even our own mother—impeding our privacy."

John looks thoughtful as he digests this. After minute's deliberation, he opens his mouth and says the last thing Sherlock is expecting. "Did you ever meet anyone you liked on these 'dates'?"

"What?" Out of all of the significant information he has just given John, _that_ is what he chooses to focus on? Sherlock gives him a strange look but replies anyway; "Well, on one occasion I met someone that was actually quite interesting, but it didn't take long for them to show their true colors."

John's body language and expression blare his interest quite clearly. He leans in and raises his eyebrows, "Okay that was way too vague and you know it. What was their name, what were they like, and what happened that made you dislike them?"

Questions, questions, so many questions! He sighs; he might as well humor John. Besides, he rather likes having John's undivided attention on him. "His name was Victor Trevor. I was fifteen when we met, he was eighteen," Sherlock begins, his eyes growing glassy as he recedes into memories of his childhood. "My mother had once again tricked me into attending some ridiculous soiree for some ridiculous person I did not care for, and I was just about to leave when I saw him leaning on the wall tapping his fingers against a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. I didn't have any since my mother made sure to confiscate my stash, so I attempted to pick-pocket him on my way out. I had the package halfway out of his pocket when he grabbed my wrist and grinned at me; he said something akin to "If you wanted some you need only ask." After that we went outside and smoked and talked, mostly about the stupid people inside. He was interesting to me because he was the first person I'd met that was remotely intelligent and tolerant enough to withstand my…quirks. Anyway, hours flew by and he eventually tried to kiss me. I had no interest in such a thing at the time, being that I wanted a _friend_ and nothing more. I turned my head away and said 'no', and he immediately lost his charm. Within seconds of the rejection, he called me a freak and stormed back inside. When I rejoined the party five minutes later, he was in the corner snogging some drunk girl. Suffice to say, it was not a good experience."

To Sherlock's surprise, by the time he's finished speaking, John looks quite…angry. His fists and jaw are clenched and his brow is pulled into a frown—it's the same way he looks whenever Donovan or Anderson say something snide to Sherlock: defensive, protective, and itching to punch something. "What a bloody prick," John snaps. He glares at the table for a moment, then his expression softens. He looks up at Sherlock. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

Sherlock gives him an odd look; he has no idea why John is getting so worked up over something as insignificant as this. "It's fine; that was hardly the first or last time someone did not take rejection well," he pauses and scrutinizes John. "John, why does it bother you so much? It's in the past; besides, it was far from traumatizing. I'm perfectly fine."

"Yeah—I'm not really bothered by that specifically; what I _am_ bothered by is the way people treat you in general. And I know you don't care what anyone thinks, it's just…" he sighs in frustration, "it's just, I hate when people say things like that about you. They're just so bloody _stupid_! They don't—they don't _get _you, you know? They don't bother to listen or care or get to know you; they just make snap-judgments and say something cruel."

"To be fair, I don't exactly make charming first impressions, John," Sherlock replies with a lopsided smile.

John gives a tired chuckle. "Yeah, in most cases I agree."

"Most?"

"Well, _my_ first impression of you was quite good, actually," John smiles absently, nostalgia washing over his features. "I mean, yeah, I thought you were a bit mad, but I also thought you were brilliant and exciting and blunt; I was bloody _sick_ of people sugar coating things for me, the poor old invalid, so it was quite refreshing to be around someone honest."

Sherlock's heart pounds in chest like a drum. "You…you thought I was brilliant and exciting?"

John looks at him from across the table, eyes smiling. "Yeah, of course I did. And how was I to refuse your offer of sharing a flat, when you had that dramatic exit, billowing coat, and those bloody cheekbones?" asks John fondly.

Sherlock squirms in his seat, realizing with both discomfort and excitement that they are once again nearing 'flirting' territory. "My cheekbones?"

"They're eye-catching," John says thoughtfully, as if appraising a painting. "_You_ are quite eye catching as a whole, actually."

Sherlock is now blushing so fiercely that his face feels as if it is on fire. "You say that as if you aren't."

"Aren't what?" asks John.

"Eye-catching. Attractive. Because you are," he blurts out, tearing his gaze from the table to meet John's.

When John stares back, his blue eyes are sharp and focused unerringly on Sherlock. It feels as if time has stopped; as if they are the only two people in the entire universe. "You think so?" John asks quietly, his voice rough.

"Yeah," Sherlock croaks. The air is practically vibrating with tension and suspense. Sherlock's fingertips feel numb, his mind is blank, and his heart is pounding so fiercely that he is surprised the entire flat is not shaking because of it.

They are on the precipice of something; they are standing at the edge of a vast canyon of change and something is going to happen very, very soon. Whatever it is will change them irrevocably, he can feel it. However, he finds that he is not afraid of the notion. If anything, the thought excites him, which is an interesting development, considering he has been absolutely terrified of change, in the past. The tension sizzles in the air like tangible smoke. Sherlock wets his bottom lip and watches John mimic the action, his eyes dark and his body still.

Sherlock is in the middle of contemplating the most dignified way to dive across the table and shove his tongue down John's throat, consequences be damned, when three sharp knocks ring out in the flat. His spine straightens and every notion of romantic activity is wiped from his mind in an instant.

_Mother. _

John gives him a confused look, though he too has been shaken from the spell. "Who is that? Bit early for a client, yeah?"

"Yeah," he mumbles absently, clumsily rising from his chair. Damn it, why is she here already? Mycroft said she would stop by around dinner time and it is currently _eight in the morning_.

Sherlock scowls and allows himself a brief moment to mentally curse Mycroft. He then straightens, clears his expression, and strides briskly to the door. At the last moment, he answers John's unspoken question, "My mother," he calls over his shoulder. Then, without further explanation, he swings the door open.

"Darling!" Violet Holmes cries, engulfing him in an embrace. He resigns himself to the hug and carefully reciprocates it. "Hello, Mother."

"Oh dear, it appears I've caught you in the middle of breakfast, haven't I? So sorry, darling," Violet says apologetically. Sherlock knows better than to think she's being sincere; Mother knew exactly what she was doing by coming here so early in the morning. It is apparently her goal to catch him unguarded and gain a candid peek into his life; annoyance aside, he must say he admires the cleverness behind it.

Behind him, John amicably sets about reassuring her; "Oh, don't worry about it, please," he smiles winningly and steps forward to shake her hand. "It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Holmes, I'm John Watson."

Violet smiles. "Please, call me Violet, dear. And the pleasure is all mine; I've heard so much about you, Doctor Watson."

John beams. "I can say the same about you! From what Sherlock has told me, I've gathered that you are quite the genius. Cooking, sewing, painting, _and _the author of a book on quantum mechanics? That's just incredible."

Sherlock rolls his eyes so hard his irises nearly disappear into his skull. Meanwhile, Violet blushes and titters and John smiles like the good lad he is. It's quite clear that Mummy already adores him, though Sherlock cannot say he is surprised; John simply can't help but charm the pants off of every single person he meets.

Sherlock takes her arm to lead her inside, but she pauses by the door, her brow furrowed. After a moment's contemplation, understanding dawns across her face and she looks up at Sherlock with sharp eyes. "You know, darling," Violet chastises, "If you're going to indulge, please do so with something classier than—" she sniffs at the air, "cheap wine from the corner shop. I'm sure a smart man like yourself can procure a decent bottle of Pinot Noir."

Sherlock frowns but grumbles "Yes, mother."

He is quite ready to move on and settle into the sitting room, but John looks baffled. "How did you know that? Mycroft?"

Violet smiles at his surprise. "No, dear, I just used this," she taps her nose, "and these," she gestures to her eyes. "I'm assuming you're aware that my sons have similar abilities?"

John grins at the mention of Sherlock's 'powers of deduction'. "Oh, yes. I certainly am—it's quite amazing that you lot can all deduce. Bloody brilliant, that."

She raises an eyebrow and gives Sherlock a look from the corner of her eye that clearly says: _well, I can see why you like him_. "Thank you, Doctor Watson, I'm flattered that you think so."

John takes her coat and leads her into the sitting room. "I'll prepare a fresh pot and be right out. Would you like any biscuits or toast?"

Violet takes a seat on the couch and gazes about the flat attentively. "No, dear, tea will be just fine, thank you." John nods and disappears into the kitchen.

She continues to scan the room with interest. Her eyes land on the mounted cow skull wearing headphones and she turns to Sherlock with a strange look. "What is that?"

He smiles archly and takes a seat beside her. "I won the skull in a card game and the headphones are a bit of an inside joke."

Mrs. Holmes looks incredulously at the strange decoration "With whom?"

"Myself," he answers succinctly. "Now, what brings you here, mother?"

"Well, you failed to mail your weekly letter and I understandably grew concerned, so—"

He raises an eyebrow in silent skepticism. With a gleam in her eye she primly raises her chin and continues. "_Fine. _If you must know, darling, I came because I was dying to meet your boyfriend. You never stop talking about him in your letters and this is the first time you've ever shown romantic interest in anyone; can you really fault me for giving in to curiosity?"

Sherlock's cheeks grow warm. "He is not my boyfriend, Mother."

She arches a dubious brow. "You live together, spend all of your time together, and it's quite clear from your letters that you're in love with the man; I don't see why not."

Sherlock exhales gruffly and glares at the floor. "It's complicated. You wouldn't understand."

Violet rolls her eyes, well-accustomed to his moodiness. "Sherlock, you forget that you are no longer the only genius in the room. I _do_ understand; you simply don't care for the title, do you? Well, fine. He is not your '_boyfriend_'," she says indulgently, "he is your partner, your second-half, etcetera."

"Mother—"

"Sherlock, it is no use lying to me. You and Doctor Watson are clearly involved; it does not take a certified genius to see the blatant affection he has for you."

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest but cannot find the words. She smiles in satisfaction and pats his hand. "I suggest we change the subject because John is going to join us in the next ten seconds with our t—_yes_, so anyway dear, Mrs. Chester has been dying to see you and Mikey! It's been ages since you've visited; I believe you were ten the last time you stopped by her house for a cuppa," Seamlessly, Mrs. Holmes turns to John as if she'd just noticed his arrival. "Oh, and speaking of cuppas, here's the lovely doctor with our tea." She smiles warmly and accepts a cup.

John hands Sherlock his cup next. "Black, two sugars, just how you like it."

Sherlock accepts the tea but refuses to meet John's eyes. The tension from this morning is still there, sizzling between them like heat waves, but as long as he does not make eye contact, it remains dormant.

Sherlock is almost certain that if his mother had not made her untimely entrance, he would've thrown himself over the table and kissed the living daylights out of John right then and there. However, the thought that is most difficult to wrap his head around is this: he is also almost certain that if he_ had_ done that, John would have kissed him back.

It is such a strange notion to entertain, considering how certain he was of John's sexuality only a day ago when he spoke with Molly. However, after reviewing John's text from last night and experiencing that tense moment during breakfast, he is no longer so sure.

John grabs a chair from their desk by the window and drags it before the table, so that he is sitting across from them. "So, what were we talking about?"

Without missing a beat, Violet replies, "Oh, just an old friend of mine that was inquiring about my sons' whereabouts. However, that is unimportant; what I really want to talk about is _you_, Doctor Watson."

John smiles. "Please, call me John. What would you like to know?"

She scans him briefly and Sherlock can already tell she is making the same deductions he had made when he met John: invalidated army doctor, injury in left shoulder, younger brother, attracted to dangerous situations, competent doctor, clever, and quite strong despite his small stature. Satisfied with her perusal, she asks, "Well, I'd like to know how you and my son met."

Sherlock already knows that for some reason John loves telling the story of how they met. Sherlock personally enjoys John's retelling, because it is lovely to hear of their meeting from John's perspective, which is always romanticized and loaded with positive adjectives. Words like "brilliant" and "fantastic" come up quite a lot as John recounts that day in the lab with bright eyes and a wide smile. Meanwhile, Violet Holmes remains as rapt as an eager pupil, clearly just as pleased with the tale as John himself.

By the end, Violet is absolutely charmed. "What a lovely story, John. Goodness, you do not know how pleased I am that you and Sherlock have found each other."

John smiles and easily replies, "Oh, I agree. I reckon I would be lost without my detective."

_My_ detective. Sherlock is tempted now more than ever to look at John, but he manages to curb the urge and stares into his tea instead.

"John, he raves about you _constantly_ in his letters," Violet gushes, leaning forward to pat John's hand on the coffee table. Sherlock scowls and sinks further into the couch, his arms crossed petulantly over his chest_. "Mother,"_ he warns, expression dark. Violet rolls her eyes good naturedly and gives him a light swat on the shoulder.

John is still smiling, though now his expression is tinged with curiosity. "Raves about me, does he?" he asks wryly, staring at Sherlock with bright eyes. Sherlock pointedly looks at the ceiling, his cheeks uncomfortably warm.

Violet chuckles. "Well, to Sherlock's standards anyway. In the beginning, he was quite subtle about you; just a passing comment here or there about his new flat mate—former army doctor, currently working at a clinic down the block, etcetera—but eventually he began using quite—how should I put it—_telling_ adjectives," She grins and completely ignores the low growl emitting from Sherlock. "Clever, loyal, steadfast, good humored, kind, patient—goodness, the list is endless. I was surprised by his attentiveness to you in general, since it is no secret that my son does not typically take interest in others. But, you, John, he wrote about everything from your hobbies to the color of your hair. He described it as blonde and silvery, by the way—his words, not mine."

John's eyebrows are now nearly at his hairline. He looks to Sherlock. "You said all that?"

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek and stubbornly focuses on floor. "Not in so many words, but…yes."

John's expression lights up. "Well, I must say, your son is quite extraordinary as well, Violet. Brilliant, dead-clever, unique, and ultimately quite caring—hell, I could go on for ages."

Sherlock risks an upward glance and finds that John is not looking at his mother as he says this, he is looking at _Sherlock._

"How kind of you to say that, John! Oh, see you two are just lovely to each other—oh, what do you say Sherlock? John has just complimented you!"

Sherlock immediately feels like a child. He huffs and flicks his gaze to John, whose eyes are twinkling with mirth. "_Thank you,_ John."

John grins, amusement and fondness clear in his expression. "You're quite welcome, Sherlock."

The next hour or so is spent recounting various cases for his mother's benefit, as well as several questions aimed at John, most of them regarding Sherlock. He continues to answer in the same easy-going manner that he has all morning, much to Sherlock's surprise and pleasure.

Eventually, Violet glances at her watch and begins to rise. "Oh dear I believe I've lost track of time! I'm meant to have a late breakfast with Mikey in a half hour. Well, it was lovely to meet you, John," Violet says, taking John's hand in a warm shake. "I certainly plan on visiting again, this has been quite enjoyable."

John smiles in return. "I agree, and it was great meeting you as well."

She turns to Sherlock and gives him a stern look. "Now, Sherlock, Mikey has made reservations for us at a lovely restaurant downtown at eight. I expect you to be one time."

"Mother, please refrain from calling him 'Mikey' in my presence. It's reviving yesterday's nausea."

She lifts a brow. "Sherlock…"

He sighs and starts leading her out the door. "Yes, yes, I will be on time, mother, I promise. I'll see you then."

After the door has been firmly shut, he exhales in relief and leans against the wall. "Well, that's over."

John rolls his eyes and starts cleaning up the tea tray from the coffee table. "I happen to like your mother. She's clever—like you—and quite lovely to speak with—also like you. In fact, you are both similar in many other ways, though I can't put my finger on all of them."

John places the dishes in the sink and then returns to the sitting room. "Okay, I'm off to work. Don't suppose I'll see you until later tonight since I get out late." John collects his jacket and strides over to the doorway, where Sherlock is still leaning. Causally, as if it is the most natural thing in the world, John pushes up on his toes and plants a quick kiss on Sherlock's cheek. "See you later," he calls over his shoulder, already thumping his way down the stairs.

Sherlock blinks in surprise and places a hand on his cheek. _Well that's a lovely start to the day._

* * *

Sherlock spends his remaining free hours on a variety of experiments. He is in the midst of dissecting his third batch of livers, when his mobile buzzes.

**_Sent at: 7:45pm_**

_Come outside, we're here. MH_

**_Sent at: 7:46pm_**

_Why on earth are you picking me up? SH_

**_Sent at: 7:47pm_**

_Mummy did not trust you to arrive on time yourself. Now hurry up, the car is running. MH_

Sure enough, Mycroft's car is on the curb, impatiently waiting as Sherlock takes his sweet time making his way downstairs.

Inside the car, his mother is fixing her makeup. "Hello, dear. Don't you look _dapper_," she coos, eyeing his plum dress shirt and dark trousers with approval.

He fights the urge to roll his eyes. "Thank you, mother."

The moment they arrive at their destination, Sherlock can tell that Mycroft has chosen the restaurant; it has 'posh git' written all over it. The building is aristocratic, exclusive, and everything from its décor to its customers lend to the image of an expensive, high-society eatery. Mother is suitably impressed and Mycroft looks smug when the entire staff greets him by his first name and rushes to find him the best seat.

As they pass chandelier after chandelier, Sherlock finds himself longing for the understated comfort of Angelo's.

The evening passes by at an unbearable pace as Mother and Mycroft talk about one boring topic after the next—British government, vacation in Cabo, exotic recipes, and etcetera. In the meantime, Sherlock busies himself by deducing the scandalous secrets of London's most well-endowed. The woman draped with pearls in the corner is having a love affair with four separate people, the proud yacht owner by the bar has a raging foot fetish, and the posh barmaid is stealing money from not one, but three members of the same book club. Sherlock chuckles to himself and finds that he misses John's company quite dearly, because he would certainly be amused by Sherlock's findings. Covertly, he sneaks his phone from his pocket and composes a text underneath the table.

**_Sent at: 8:30pm_**

_Fun fact: the Mayor's wife is having an affair with a barmaid and a waiter. SH_

**_Sent at: 8:32pm_**

_What! Damn, I wish I was there so you could point out the million clues that told you that. JW_

**_Sent at: 8:33pm_**

_A 'million' clues is hyperbole, John. SH_

**_Sent at 8:33pm_**

_And I wish you were here too. SH_

**_Sent at: 8:35pm_**

_What, Mycroft and your mother aren't interesting enough? JW_

**_Sent at: 8:36pm_**

_Hardly. They are currently talking about Italian desserts and only a moment ago they were discussing their favorite poets. If I die of boredom, I leave all of my property to you. Just give Mycroft my half-finished experiments. SH_

**_Sent at: 8:38pm_**

_Even the tub of animal saliva? JW_

**_Sent at: 8:39pm_**

_*especially* the tub of animal saliva. SH_

**_Sent at: 8:41pm _**

_Well, if it makes you feel any better, things are rather slow over here too. JW_

**_Sent at: 8:42pm_**

_What are you doing right now? SH_

**_Sent at: 8:43pm_**

_Flipping through channels on telly and simultaneously attempting to do paperwork. It's about as exciting as it sounds. JW_

**_Sent at: 8:44pm_**

_Well, John, I can only conclude that your boredom is due to my absence. SH_

**_Sent at: 8:45pm_**

_Ha! You know, I'd deny it, but I suppose that'd be pointless. I do miss you. JW_

Sherlock pauses, his face splitting into a grin he is helpless to conceal.

**_Sent at: 8:48pm_**

_I miss you too. SH_

**_Sent at: 8:50pm_**

_I often forget how dull everyone else is since I spend most of my time with you. Your absence has made me once again painfully aware of society's general idiocy. SH _

**_Sent at: 8:52pm_**

_So…you're calling me clever? JW_

**_Sent at: 8:53pm_**

_Of course. Now don't get a big head about it. SH_

**_Sent at: 8:54pm_**

_Sherlock Holmes, genius, scientist, and consulting detective, has just called me clever. I believe my life goals have been met now. JW_

**_Sent at: 8:55pm_**

_It's hardly something to celebrate, John; you already knew you were clever. They don't make just anyone a doctor, after all. SH_

"Sherlock," Mother says sharply. "You know how I feel about phones during supper." She gives him a chastising look, but the gleam in her eyes is a touch too knowing for his liking; it's clear she is aware of who he was texting.

"Fine," he says under his breath, quickly typing out a final text.

**_Sent at: 8:58pm_**

_I'll text you when I'm on my way home. See you then. SH_

Mycroft takes a sip of wine and eyes Sherlock shrewdly. "So," he drawls, "how is John?"

Sherlock raises his chin defiantly and coolly answers, "None of your business, Mycroft."

Mrs. Holmes glances between the two of them before settling her attention on Sherlock. "How is your salmon fillet, dear?"

He knows better than to think the question has innocuous intentions. Mother always prefaces intrusive inquisitions with something seemingly harmless

Blandly, he answer, "Too much dill and pepper, not enough basil."

"Mm, yes," she replies absently, clearly in the process of formulating the question she _actually _cares about.

As Sherlock pushes his salmon around his plate for the tenth time this evening, Violet clears her throat. "Sherlock, I would like to ask you something and I need you to be honest in your answer."

He eyes her warily, but understands that he hardly has a choice of accepting the question or not. With a sigh, he concedes. "Go on."

Mrs. Holmes dabs at her mouth, politely sets her silverware on the table, and fixes her undivided attention on Sherlock. With a frank tone and unwavering gaze, she asks, "Are you and John Watson engaging in sexual activity?"

The collective reaction to this blunt comment is almost comical in its swiftness. Mycroft immediately chokes on his wine, coughing and spluttering in between laughter, Sherlock's hand jerks in shock, causing him to spear his left hand instead of the salmon, and as a result, Mrs. Holmes shrieks, "oh dear," and spills her champagne across the white tablecloth. Once Mycroft's mirth has simmered down to sporadic chuckles, a waiter has replaced their tablecloth, and Sherlock's wounded hand has been cared for, Violet eyes her two sons with a chastising look. "Honestly, boys, I really expect better," she scolds, dabbing uselessly at the dark stain on her blouse. She ceases in her task when she notices the shaking shoulders and gleeful expression of her eldest. With narrowed eyes and a cool tone, she says, "Mycroft, I fail to see what is funny here."

Mycroft stops laughing, but the amusement does not leave his eyes. "My apologies, mother."

She clears her throat and turns her attention back to Sherlock, who is still absently clutching his hand to his chest and staring into the middle-distance with wide eyes. "Sherlock. Excuse your brother and kindly answer me."

He blinks out of his daze and stares up at her. Answer her? He doesn't quite trust himself to speak at the moment—for fear he'll choke to death on embarrassment—so in response, he wordlessly shakes his head.

Violet tilts her head. "'No' as in you won't answer me or 'no' as in—"

Completely recovered and now back to his typical collected self, Mycroft smoothly interjects, "No as in _no_, Mummy. At least not yet." He eyes Sherlock's mortified expression over the rim of his glass as he takes a sip, a smirk curling the edge of his mouth. "Or am I incorrect, brother?"

Sherlock scowls. "No, you are correct," he grits out, as if the words physically cause him pain.

Violet raises her eyebrows in genuine surprise. "Why, love?" she asks, brow furrowed. "John is certainly handsome enough and you two are obviously quite keen for each other, so I fail to see why your relationship has yet to take a physical route?"

Sherlock grits his teeth. This is a conversation he would not willingly have with _himself_, let alone his mother. "I told you already, mother, John is not my boyfriend. Besides, John is straight," he states, but it's a tired argument and even he can hear the lack of conviction in his tone.

Mother rolls her eyes and dismisses the statement. "Sexuality is not always black and white, dear. Besides, if all of his affectionate touching was any indication, he is _clearly _attracted to you." She takes a sip of wine. "I am your mother, Sherlock, and you often forget how well I know you; it is quite obvious you'd like to become_ involved_ with him."

Sherlock groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Mother I really, _really _do not fancy having this chat with you right now, in public, and in the presence of Mycroft, no less. In fact, I'd rather we didn't have this conversation at all."

She happily ignores him and continues on as if he hadn't spoken. "I can see that for the time being, things are a bit complicated, but when you _do_ decide to become—ahem—_intimate _with John, please remember to use protection, okay, dear? Here, I had a feeling this subject would come up so I brought along—"

"Mother," Sherlock says slowly, his eyes firmly clamped shut. "If you finish that sentence or remove whatever you've brought from your purse, I will stand up and walk out of this restaurant _right now_."

She frowns but stops digging through her bag. "Be reasonable, Sherlock! You refused to have the 'talk' when you were a teenager because you claimed it was useless, and now you're about to have an actual relationship with a frankly _adorable_ doctor, and you _still _deny me my right as mother to share with you the knowledge of sexual experiences!" By the time she's finished speaking, she is a bit out of breath. Mycroft gapes at her from across the table, before ducking behind his menu as an onslaught of laughter threatens to overtake him once again. Meanwhile, Sherlock's eyes are opened so wide that he fears they are going to just pop right out of his head. He takes a deep, calming breath and clenches his jaw so fiercely that he can hear the audible click of his molars gnashing together.

"Mother," Sherlock begins quietly, his voice low and firm. "I am a thirty-five year old man now. Whatever ambiguities I find in the world of—of _sexual experiences _I will investigate and solve myself, without any advice, warnings, or—dear god—_suggestions _from you. So, thank you, but _no_ thank you," he finishes curtly.

She arches a brow and concedes. "Fine. But know this is not the last time we will visit this subject."

Relieved to move on, Sherlock decides to shift the spotlight over to his brother. "Now that we've discussed me, I'm sure you're curious about Mycroft's social life, Mother."

She perks up at this. "Oh, yes, I did mean to speak to you about that, Mikey. Are you seeing anyone?"

Mycroft takes a stalling sip of wine. "I see a lot of people, Mummy. My job does involve many meetings and impromptu lunches, as well as—"

"You know that is not what I meant, dear," Violet cuts in.

He sighs in defeat and interlaces his fingers on the table before him. "Fine. I haven't been 'seeing' anyone consistently. There was a bloke in France and a few women along the coast, but as you know my job does not afford me very much free time. Besides, they were all quite dull," he waves dismissively, "just distractions to tide me over from one country to the next."

Sherlock scrunches his nose in distaste. He would really rather not hear about Mycroft's many casual 'flings'; imagining someone holding Mycroft in any sort of romantic regard is quite repulsive.

"Oh, what about that assistant of yours? Trudy or Rebecca, I believe? She's quite pretty and you two seemed to get along swimmingly the last time I saw her."

Mycroft exhales a chuckle. "Ah, yes, my assistant; she's going by Anthea at the moment. I'll admit I have considered her before; she is exceptionally clever, quite the opposite of boring, and as you mentioned, attractive. However, I'd prefer that business and pleasure remain separate."

Mother gives her wholehearted agreement and proceeds to launch into an anecdote about a friend of hers who got involved with her boss and ended up losing her job. "It's messy business, dating a colleague."

Sherlock happily tunes out and returns to his task of deducing the eccentricities and oddities of London's finest.

. . .

When Mycroft's car stops in front of Sherlock's flat to drop him off, Mother grabs his arm and insists that she walk him to the door. Sherlock gives her an odd look but does not protest.

Once the two of them are standing on the front steps, Sherlock begins digging in his pocket for his keys, but Mrs. Holmes stops him.

"Sherlock, before you go inside, there is something I wish to tell you."

He groans and looks away. "If this is another attempt at 'educating' me, I assure you I do not—"

"Hush, dear," she chides, lightly swatting his shoulder. "Do not presume to know what I will say. I wanted to tell you something important about you and John," her expression grows sincere. "You've spent all day telling me that your relationship with him is complicated, but it is clear to me that the only complications are your mutual fear of change and uncertainty of each other's feelings, which if you ask me is pointless since you two are obviously quite in love. Darling, it is only a matter of time before one of you musters up the courage to do something about it, and once that happens the dam will break and you two will wonder why you didn't get together sooner. I have known the man for a total of two hours, and I can already see how perfect he is for you, Sherlock. He is kind, patient, brave, intelligent, caring—all of the things a Holmes needs!" She takes his hand and holds it between hers.

"When I met your father I was just as brooding, intelligent, and wildly bored with the world as you; he was the first person I met who was not only interesting, but cared about me as well. He was the calm to my storm, as they say. That is what John is to you, Sherlock. Perhaps you're reluctant to accept the truth now, but you two are quite literally _made_ for each other. You keep each other balanced; he is the day to your night, the sun to your moon…" she looks at his expression and smiles. "I won't bore you with anymore poetic drivel, but I will say this: gaining something wonderful is never easy and it often involves a leap of faith. Do not be afraid to jump, darling. I guarantee the results will be worth it."

With that, she pecks him on the cheek and makes her way back down the steps. Over her shoulder she calls, "Goodnight, dear, I'll be in town until tomorrow morning so don't hesitate to call."

Sherlock watches her enter the black car and then disappear into the night, her words still echoing in his head. With a deep breath he shakes himself from his daze, opens the door, and enters the building.

Inside the flat, he finds John asleep on the couch, a pile of paperwork sitting on his rising and falling chest. The telly drones quietly in the background, providing white noise in the otherwise silent flat. With a small smile, Sherlock carefully removes the papers and replaces them with a blanket, mindful not to wake John.

As he gazes at John's peaceful expression, something warm stirs in his chest. With a content sigh, he drops a quick kiss on John's forehead and idly runs his fingers through John's hair.

_Gaining something wonderful takes a leap of faith, yes? Well…_

_Perhaps I'm ready to jump._

* * *

**A/N: So what did you guys think? Let me know in the comments; feedback is always greatly appreciated!**

**As for the Johnlock smut Question: consensus says YES to some T-rated snog sessions and NO to hardcore M-rated action, which works just fine because that was my original intention anyway. ;)**

**Thanks so much for reading, you beautiful people you, don't forget to review! :) **

**Until next time, darlings! X0X0 **


	9. Films Are Watched and Plans Are Made

**The author's note is at the bottom, along with a huge-ass apology for being a terrible updater. **

**Heads Up: this chapter is two parts, and don't worry, I will be posting the second part either tomorrow or Saturday. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes likes to think of himself as a man of action. He likes to believe that once a plan has rooted itself in his mind, he can seamlessly follow through without hesitating or second-guessing himself like most ordinary, boring people. In the past, this self-image was well-founded because he_ was_ a man of action; if he had a lead on a case, he followed it. If he harbored suspicion towards something, he looked into it. And if a chase presented itself, he was off and running long before doubt had the opportunity to assemble.

In short, when Sherlock Holmes decided he wanted something, he didn't sit around twiddling his thumbs, he_ took it._

Yet for some reason, it has been forty-eight hours, ten minutes, and twenty-six seconds since his decision to confront John,and thus far he has only managed to weakly compliment John's shirt and stubbornly refuse eye contact.

..

_Yesterday:_

_"__Sherlock you're acting a bit strange, are you okay? You've been all out of sorts since your mum visited."_

_Sherlock ducked his head behind the book he was currently pretending to read and made an ambiguous noise in the back of his throat, hoping John would deem the response acceptable._

_"__Pardon?"_

_Okay, so apparently not. Wearily, Sherlock lowered the book and stared at John, annoyed to find he was just as lovely as he'd been yesterday and every day before that; the man was certainly not making this whole 'I'm currently avoiding you to prolong confrontation' thing easy. "I'm fine."_

_"__Really. Well then please explain why you haven't spoken more than five words to me since—"_

_"__I like your shirt. It suits you," Sherlock blurted out. Partially to cut off the ensuing rant and partially because it had been a whole day since he'd complimented John, and the compulsion to do so had become too strong to resist. _

_John gave him a strange look but relented. _

_.._

But aside from that brief and undoubtedly strange encounter yesterday, he has made no progress in confessing his feelings.

Suffice to say, Sherlock is frustrated with himself.

Considering all of the mad shite he's done in the past—leaping across rooftops and sparring with trained assassins, to name a few—saying three bloody words to someone who is more than likely going to respond favorably should be the easiest thing in the world. Unfortunately, this action is _not_ an easy one because there are so many damn complications to it; for every positive entity there is an accompanying negative one.

In fact, he has spent the past two nights staring at his ceiling and entertaining said entities, mentally carving items into his ongoing pros-and-cons list:

Pro: John clearly likes him, as evident by the kiss on the cheek and top of his head, the cuddling after he was sick, and the general affection he seems to have for Sherlock.

Con: John may like him, but his romantic interests have always been in women, not men. Perhaps he has affection for Sherlock, but that does not mean he wishes to become romantically involved with him.

Pro: If John reciprocates his feelings then he will have gained an invaluable relationship.

Con: On the other hand, if John does not feel the same, then he will have torn an irrevocable hole in their friendship.

Pro: John is possibly bisexual.

Con: John is possibly not bisexual.

The argument circles itself endlessly like a dog chasing its tail, and even though Sherlock created this 'list' to ease his mind, so far it has only proven to be a cyclical, ceaseless mess that leaves Sherlock more confused each time he entertains it.

He refrains from calling Molly, his mother, or Mrs. Hudson because at this point he is wise enough to know that one cannot assemble a board meeting of women every time there is a decision to make about one's relationship. (Though, he _is_ tempted to call a few times). Mycroft, Gavin, and all other male-figures in his life are out of the question for obvious reasons, though even if they were not, Sherlock realizes he must do this on his own, sans advice and consultation.

He has decided on this last point resolutely; he needs to figure this out himself because if—_when_, positive thinking—he develops a romantic relationship with John, he cannot constantly rely on others to help him navigate through it. This is a journey he must take on his own.

. . .

It is on day three of 'avoiding confrontation' that Sherlock discovers a loophole in his own resolution: he cannot turn to his friends or family for advice, but that does not mean he cannot consult _other people._ Namely, the various actors and actresses in romantic cinema.

While John is at the clinic diagnosing several hypochondriacs and a spectrum of _actually _ill folk (which Sherlock deduces from a few annoyed texts), Sherlock slips on his most clever disguise and makes his way to the film-rental store. His façade consists of an old maroon sweatshirt with a hood big enough to hide his hair, faded jeans peppered with little holes from a spilled acid experiment, sunglasses that take up half his face, and old trainers that have clearly seen better days. His goal is to look like someone who does not warrant a second glance, due to either shadiness or apparent homelessness. His secondary goal is to remain anonymous, as it wouldn't do well for his reputation if he were caught purchasing a box set of romantic films at Cinema Land. As he passes by the mirror on his way out of the flat, he finds that he looks like a cross between a drug-dealer and a common vagrant.

_Excellent. _

Sherlock stealthily makes his way through the bustling streets of London, hood pulled over his head, sunglasses shielding three-fourths of his remaining visage, with his hands tucked in his pockets and his chin tucked to his chest. To the common observer, he is a nameless man in shoddy apparel, striding purposefully towards his next hit or perhaps customer, being that his shady appearance is indicative of both a dealer and a user. To an informed observer with keen eyes, however, he is Sherlock Holmes dressed like a beggar, half-jogging his way to the film store in hopes of gleaning insight from London's beloved, hour and half-long films regarding the trite-side of romance.

Sherlock walks into the building and immediately cringes when the bell on the door chimes and loudly announces his arrival to the entire store. Thankfully, today appears to be slow, since the only other people in the small establishment are a store-worker, a mother with her baby, and a teenage girl. Sherlock warily looks around and scowls reflexively, already sick of the obnoxious movie posters and endless racks of trite, overdone garbage. On the other hand, he_ is_ about to purchase a few hours-worth of said garbage, so he supposes for the time being he does not have room to criticize.

With an intake of breath to steel himself, Sherlock warily approaches the front counter. He feels unbearably ridiculous, but consoles himself with the thought that he has at least retained his anonymity, if not his dignity. _Deep breaths. Remember, this is for John._

The worker at the cash register can't be older than sixteen, with his spotty face, gawky frame, and too-long haircut. He is leaning forward on the counter on his elbows, one fist supporting his head as he stares blankly at his mobile's blue-lit screen.

Sherlock's sharp eyes dart across the boy's visage, soaking in his mannerisms, expression, and unconscious movements like a sponge, easily deducing his entire personality in a few short seconds. The nametag says 'Robert' but it is quite clear he is called 'Bobby' by his family and friends, and judging by his defensive posture and permanent, challenging expression, the choice of using his full name was a deliberate attempt to garner respect. (The operative word being _'attempt')_

To ensure that his identity remain obscure, Sherlock lowers his voice past its normal, recognizable pitch. "Excuse me?"

_Bobby_ lazily pulls his eyes away from the screen and regards Sherlock with a bored expression. "Yes?" he drones.

"Er, I'm looking for some _love films_." He coughs to conceal the latter part of his sentence. "If you, er, know what I mean?" He absolutely refuses to say "romantic movies" outright.

The greasy-faced teenager scoffs under his breath and rolls his eyes—why, Sherlock has no idea, other than the obvious conclusion that a grown man seeking 'rom-coms' is amusing—and obligingly leads him to his desired section. Strangely enough, the romantic film section happens to be buried in the farthest corner of the store, shielded from the other patrons by a large ensemble of cardboard cutouts, which Sherlock finds odd because he was under the impression that romantic films were widely sought. Wouldn't it be wiser to place this display at the front of the store?

When they are within roughly five feet of the shelves, Bobby stops and turns to him with a raised brow, "Hey, mister, not that we don't want your business or anything, but you know you could just get this stuff for free online, right?."

Sherlock frowns in confusion, but the boy is not privy to his silent response thanks to the thick glasses shielding half his face, and interprets his lack of response as embarrassment. Bobby sighs, twisting his features into an impression of sympathy, and pats Sherlock's shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. You're old, I get it. You didn't know this kind of stuff was all over the place on the internet—that's fine. Just, you know, in the future you could go there instead. Provides a little more _discretion_."

Sherlock's frown lessens. Despite his grating tone and comment about Sherlock being _old_—which he is just going to gloss right over—this advice is useful. He wasn't aware full length films were available online; but then, he's never before had the urge to seek one out, so why would he? "Thank you. If I ever require this material again, I will look online."

Bobby nods. A leer curls the edge of his mouth and he leans in conspiratorially. In a low voice, he mutters, "A personal favorite of mine is ' ', but that's just me. Maybe you're into other stuff."

Strange comment, but then again, strange boy. "Yes, thank you." If he would just leave already, Sherlock could get this whole bloody thing over with.

Bobby gives him another funny look, almost as if he is holding back laughter, before he departs and leaves Sherlock alone with the movies.

Sherlock clears his throat and shuffles over to the shelf of DVDs, where he quickly discovers the sunglasses make it too difficult to see the covers. Reluctantly, he removes them. After his eyes have had time to adjust to the bright lighting of the store, he returns his gaze to the shelves and—with no small amount of horror—immediately understands Bobby's strange 'recommendation'.

_College Dorm 3: Big Busty Girls Meet Brandon the Babe-Magnet _

_XXX Hot Birds at the Beach_

_The Pizza Man 2: Extra Sausage Please _

It takes Sherlock Holmes, certified genius and consulting detective, an entire minute to register the atrocities before him. He remains frozen in front of the display, his eyes widened in horror, his spine straighter than a ruler.

It isn't until the mother with child walks by and makes a noise of disgust that Sherlock finally snaps out of his temporary daze. Under her breath, she grouses,_ "Men,"_ but he's far too horrified with the situation to bother glaring in response.

Bobby thought he was looking for—for _this_? Really?

His face is set aflame as he mentally recounts every comment exchanged since his arrival, this time with 'porn' replacing all of the blanks he implicitly meant to fill with 'romance'. _Dear God._

Sherlock finds himself thankful now more than ever for his disguise.

After practically running from the depraved display, he wanders around the store until he finds a rack of DVDs labelled 'Romance—Romantic Comedies—Romantic Tragedies'

While he browses, Bobby eyes him over the top of his mobile—which is right in front of his face and nearly making him cross-eyed from its proximity—and winks, apparently under the impression that they shared a 'bonding moment' over by the adult films.

After a quick glare, Sherlock shoves the sunglasses back onto his face, hunches his shoulders, and tugs his hood down too, for good measure. They most certainly did not share any sort of 'bond' and Sherlock has no intention of letting the boy believe otherwise. He turns away to face his back towards the cash register and stares at the rows of films with a clenched jaw.

At this junction Sherlock finds himself quite eager to leave the store, and with his desperation to depart comes a renewed lack of pickiness. Without thinking twice, he sweeps several DVDs into his arms, only looking at the titles long enough to assure that they aren't porn, before he then walks up to the front of the store and unceremoniously dumps his findings on the counter.

The teenager stares down at the pile of films, realization slowly dawning across his face. "So when you said 'love films', you literally meant—"

"Yes. Now if you would just—"

"Wow, I mean, just, wow," Bobby interrupts, staring at the pile with great amusement. His gaze lingers the film whose the cover depicts two women swooning dramatically and a smug-looking man standing between them with his arms crossed. Cartoon hearts are dotted over the entire picture like sprinkles. "Crazy in Love?" The boy snickers. "Honestly, man, it would have been less embarrassing if you were buying porn."

"Kindly_ shut up_, Bobby," Sherlock snaps. He digs around in his wallet for his card and then practically stabs it in his direction, waiting in annoyance for the kid to just ring him up and take his damn money, so he can get the bloody hell out of here.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock's failure to address him by his nametag infuriates the boy. "It's _Robert."_

Feeling one-hundred percent not in the mood for this, Sherlock sharply retorts with, "Yes, I'm well aware of that. Unfortunately for you and your inflated sense of self-worth, I don't actually care what you prefer to be called. So, do both us of a favor and ring me up so I can leave, and you can return to your meaningless, adolescent existence filled with poor skin and mindless activity."

Bobby glares at him so fiercely that if looks could kill, Sherlock would probably be dead on the floor right now. He makes slow work of checking out each individual movie, deliberately being as irritating as possible as payback. Then, once he's swiped Sherlock's card and dropped the DVDs into a bag, he makes a point of saying, loudly, "Thanks for your business, Mr. Sherlock Holmes! Enjoy _Sleepless in Seattle _and _Crazy Thing Called Love!"_

Sherlock storms out the store as quickly as possible, but even two blocks later, Bobby's stupid laughter is still ringing in his ears.

. . .

His walk back home is much quicker than his first journey, but no more enjoyable. For the entire trip his heart thuds in his chest and his blood slams through his veins, thanks to the agitating cocktail of paranoia and irritation bubbling in his brain. For some reason, he is convinced that every lingering glance is a recognizing one and each bumped shoulder is a failed attempt to make him drop his bag and reveal to the world his box-set of romantic entertainment.

It is only when he has reached the delightfully familiar front steps of his flat building that his blood pressure finally begins to lower. With a triumphant, tired smile he makes his way to the door.

However, he should have known he wouldn't emerge from this situation unscathed, because right when he's inserting the key into the lock that he feels a tangible change in the air, something only his sixth sense could have picked up. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he slowly turns around, half-hoping the sight he is expecting will not be the one to greet him.

"I must admit, brother, I really had not expected you to develop such a sudden appreciation for romantic cinema," Mycroft calls from the partially lowered window of his ever-elusive black car.

Sherlock is half tempted to dart inside and lock the door, pride be damned, but he is well aware that Mycroft will only bother him tomorrow and every day after until Sherlock faces him, so he decides to just deal with it right now. With a clenched jaw, he walks back down the steps to the curb where the car is parked.

He leans down to the window and scowls. "Why are you here, Mycroft? I'm busy."

Mycroft's eyes dart to the bag in his hands, a smirk lifting the corners of his lips. "Yes, I can see that. In fact, that is why I am here."

Sherlock stares at him blankly. "You came here to watch films." It isn't a question, it is shocked statement he is fervently hoping Mycroft will refute.

Instead, because the universe seems to hate him today, Mycroft nods. "Indeed."

. . .

When they're upstairs in the flat, Sherlock is still having trouble wrapping his brilliant mind around the concept of Mycroft wanting to watch films with him all day. As children they did no such thing, so it isn't nostalgia, nor does Mycroft have any particular interest in cinema. In fact, if anything, he's even more repulsed by it than Sherlock.

Wary, Sherlock sets the bag on the coffee table and turns to face his brother. "Mycroft, what I am going to do has nothing to do with a case or anything else that might capture even an iota of your interest."

"I was under the impression that you were doing research." When Sherlock doesn't reply and averts his eyes, Mycroft insincerely clarifies, "For John, of course."

"You spoke with Mummy."

"I speak with Mummy on many occasions, brother. I'm afraid you'll have to specify which conversation you are referring to."

"You know which conversation I am referring to, Mycroft. Don't feign ignorance."

Then, because Mycroft is a great prat, he does exactly that. "I wouldn't _dare_, Sherlock."

"Mycroft—"

"Fine, yes, Mummy and I had a lovely chat on her drive back. I'm well aware of what she told you, but what I am not entirely privy to is what you plan on doing with her advice. So, care to explain your little project? Contrary to your belief, I am actually quite interested."

Sherlock is really, really not in the mood to play word games with Mycroft. What he'd like to do is sit on the couch with a plate of sweets and his notebook, and start tearing his way through his DVDs, _not_ stand here and banter with his annoying, nosy brother. "_Fine_. Yes, I'm taking Mummy's advice. At the moment I am figuring out how I shall reveal myself to John and I assumed these films would be a good place to start. Obviously I plan to take many other factors into consideration, but John has always been a fan of sentimental romantic rubbish, so I figured some of the themes or concepts in these films might appeal to him."

"Ah, yes, I agree. John does have a taste for all things maudlin," Mycroft muses. "Now then, I suppose it is my turn to elaborate?"

"Yes," Sherlock replies sharply. "Why do you want to watch these stupid things with me?" Then, sardonically: "Did Mummy chide you for not setting aside enough brotherly bonding time for us?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Hardly. I am here because I'd like to assist you in your endeavors."

Temporarily ignoring the strangeness of _that_ statement, Sherlock retorts, "Mycroft, I will be watching _romantic films_ all day. Trite, useless, poorly produced films. For hours."

"Then I will watch them as well," Mycroft coolly replies, lifting an eyebrow as if daring Sherlock to question him.

Any other might have halted in the face of the embodied British government, but of course, Sherlock is not 'any other' and has no problem with questioning his brother, especially since it seems he has lost his mind. With a little scoff, he retorts, "I really don't think you understand what I intend to do, Mycroft."

Dismissively, "I do, and I intend to stay. Trust me, Sherlock, this is for your benefit."

There are several components within that statement that are either laughably dubious or downright unlikely, 'trust me' being an example of both. Sherlock can't help but feel wildly curious, though, because he knows that Mycroft is nothing if not logical and would not insist on doing this unless there was a purpose. His brother detests silly illogic nearly as much as Sherlock himself. However abstract, Mycroft must have _some_ sort of reason for showing up and demanding to join Sherlock in his film-watching endeavors.

With an annoyed huff, Sherlock concedes. "Fine, and how exactly is this in my best interest?"

Mycroft ignores him momentarily as his eyes land on the plate of treacle tarts Mrs. Hudson brought up this morning, a look of longing passing over his features. If Sherlock was not so invested in his answer, he would make a rather biting remark about diets and Mycroft's lifelong aversion to them. However, he_ is_ invested in what Mycroft has to say—shockingly—and thus manages to hold his tongue.

After two or three pregnant seconds pass, his brother tears his gaze away from the desserts and returns to Sherlock, his cool, vaguely amused expression sliding effortlessly back into place. "As much as you endeavor to think otherwise, I do have some experience in this area. Not in love of course," he scoffs at the word, "But in the more physical aspects of—"

Sherlock cuts him off before the next word has the chance to form. "Mycroft, if you came here to finish what Mum started at the restaurant, then I will gladly inform you that my refusal to have the _'talk'_ has not wavered in the past three days. So kindly remove yourself and never—_ever_—attempt to bring this up again, understand?"

Mycroft scowls. "I have no interest in teaching you the 'birds and bees', Sherlock. I was merely seguing into my reason for being here: I wish to help you and I have insight that you will find lacking in this nonsense," he gestures distastefully at the bag of DVDs. At Sherlock's expression, Mycroft rolls his eyes and drily remarks, "I also have no intention of sharing my conquests with you, brother, so feel free to remove that horrified look any day now."

His features immediately slacken in relief, but his wariness is not so quick to disappear. Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest and levels his gaze on his brother. "Why do you want to 'help' me, Mycroft? I hardly see your personal gain here."

A combination of annoyance and offense dash across his Mycroft's features. His grip tightens imperceptibly around his umbrella's handle. "Perhaps there is no personal gain here, Sherlock. Perhaps I am doing this for your sake and nothing more." Sherlock scoffs reflexively, causing Mycroft's frown to deepen. "You know, Sherlock, I truly do not understand why you seem to be under the impression that I am some selfish tyrant, when thus far in our lives I have done nothing but give you what you desire." His tone almost sounds hurt, which is one-hundred percent, off-the-rails-unexpected, considering Mycroft's lifelong detachment and cool emotional control. In fact, Sherlock is so thrown by Mycroft's response that he cannot even muster up a decent retort.

_"__What?"_

Wearily, Mycroft seats himself on the couch and pinches the bridge of his nose, endeavoring to soothe an oncoming headache. "Sherlock, when we were children, do you remember who purchased your first violin?"

Sherlock blinks, confused. "Father, of course."

"No. _I did_. I told you father purchased the violin because I knew you, in your ridiculous obstinacy, would refuse to play just to oppose me. It would have been a shame to waste your talent, so I lied."

"But—"

"As a teenager, what ever happened to that irksome troll that blacked your eyes on several occasions?"

Sherlock swallows. "He moved."

Mycroft smiles blandly. "No, _I_ moved him. Thanks to a few connections and well-placed bribes, his entire family was relocated to somewhere in the States. I don't know the specifics, nor did I care to learn them at the time."

"Mycroft, what are you trying to pr—"

"And Sherlock? When you nearly killed yourself on a weekly basis with overdoses, who dragged your high arse to a private hospital Mummy was not aware of? Who put you in an even _more_ private rehabilitation center to ensure that your state never reached the public? Who convinced the Yard to allow a former cocaine-addict access to crime scenes and case files, despite his complete lack of authority and oftentimes sobriety? _Who_, pray tell?"

Sherlock's skin feels itchy with the uncomfortable, unfamiliar feeling of shame. This is not how their exchanges are supposed to go; they're supposed to banter and quarrel, Sherlock acting the part of the spoiled child and Mycroft playing the smarmy older brother. They aren't supposed to…to have this kind of conversation. At this point, Sherlock finds himself so thoroughly unnerved that he would gladly take the sex-talk in exchange.

Mycroft watches Sherlock flex his fingers and stare awkwardly at the back wall, before he sighs, features briefly melting into something like weariness. "I don't want your gratitude, Sherlock, and this was by no means an endeavor to make you squirm. I merely wanted you to be aware that even though you are often a bratty, over-entitled man child with very little regard for laws, safety, and a mishmash of other things, you are also my _brother_ and I have every intention of assisting you in your pursuit of happiness. In this case, such a quest involves John Watson. The only reason I am spending time here at this messy flat with trite films, is because I want you to have John, Sherlock, in the same way I wanted you to have a violin, peace of mind, and sobriety. If the cost of your happiness is an afternoon of watching," his eyes skim over one of the covers, "'_When Harry Met Sally'_, then so be it."

There is an awkward beat of silence, and then Mycroft makes as if to stand. Sherlock's eyes widen and he immediately takes a step back. "Mycroft, if you plan on hugging me…"

Mycroft rolls his eyes and sits back down. "For goodness sakes, Sherlock, I was merely adjusting myself. My apologies for traumatizing you."

Sherlock is saved from responding when Mycroft continues with, "Well, let's begin shall we?"

. . .

Four hours and three movies later, Sherlock is sitting on the couch with six pages of notes—what to do, what never to do, examples of the good, the bad, and the horrendously ugly—while Mycroft lounges beside him, peering raptly at the screen and contently nibbling his way through the treacle tarts.

The man on the screen caresses the side of the woman's face, and the camera zooms in dramatically on his glistening eyes. "Rachel," he chokes out, "you're the only star in my sky. Without you, my entire world is dark." Sad music swells in the background, the symphony of violins and wind instruments reaching their crescendo as he reaches out to brush a wisp of hair from the woman's face. "I need you like I need air, my love."

Sherlock carefully pens down the last few words—John might have a penchant for poetic drivel like that—and he is prepared to record the woman's response, but Rachel's teary, gasping reaction is drowned out by the sound of Mycroft scoffing.

"Sherlock, if you ever say something like that to John, I, like Rachel here, will weep in sorrow."

Sherlock frowns at the screen. "John says things like that to his girlfriends. All of that flowery, poetic nonsense. Perhaps he _would_ like that." He can't really image himself in the position of the bloke onscreen, but if banal, whimsical words are what John wants, then Sherlock will gladly make an exception.

Mycroft considers this for a moment, eyes resting unseeingly at the screen. "John is a romantic, yes, but I don't believe he would appreciate this sort of overdone sentiment. One cannot base John's preferences on what he offers to his girlfriends, being that he assimilates to every new relationship depending on the girl's personality, lifestyle, and his own regard for her. He is quite eager to please, always putting himself before others, don't you agree?"

"Yes, John is the most selfless person I know. He is innately kind and thoughtful, which is why he was drawn to his current profession. Caretaker complex, and all."

"Indeed. Perhaps, then, what John would appreciate is a bit of role-reversal. Instead of taking care of someone else, I'm sure he'd enjoy having someone take care of him. As in, a day dedicated solely to him."

Sherlock scrunches his face in thought. "Like a birthday?"

"Not exactly. I meant more along the lines of a date. Perhaps start the day with a kind favor—in this case, that might be cleaning the flat, because I'm sure John feels just about as fond of your mess as the rest of us. Then, you could take him to dinner later on. I suppose you could confess your feelings at the conclusion of the date. "

Sherlock nods and scribbles out the '_only star in my sky'_ bit, and replaces it with '_day dedicated to John: clean flat, dinner, confess'_. "Where should I take him? We both fancy Angelo's, but we go there often and I don't want this to seem too casual."

"Take him to _L'étoile Brillante. _Their stuffed quail is divine and the atmosphere should suit your intentions."

Sherlock glowers at the suggestion and makes a point of scratching '_do __not_ _go toL'étoile brillante' _into his notebook. "For Christ's sake, Mycroft, I'm not taking him to that posh French nightmare. I hated going there as a child, but you and Mummy always ended up dragging me along to your ridiculous family dinners. I swore to myself that I would never go back as long as I could help it."

Mycroft rolls his eyes and takes another bite of tart. "Honestly, Sherlock, your dramatics would be better suited on a stage. It is a lovely restaurant and I'm sure John would enjoy being doted upon like this; it's rare that you two dine in establishments with_ actual_ silverware, after all," he says in disdain, "so it'll be a nice change from the usual."

As much as he dislikes admitting it, John probably _would_ enjoy being taken to some fancy restaurant for one night, if not for the atmosphere, then for the novelty of the experience. With an annoyed huff, he crosses out the 'not' portion of his note, and changes it to _'Go to L'étoile Brillante'_

The remainder of the day is spent finishing the next three films, and by the end Sherlock has accumulated roughly twenty pages of notes and Mycroft has ingested a sinful amount of treacle tarts. Suffice to say, both brothers are content with the results.

When Mycroft heads for the door to make his departure, umbrella swinging absently at his side, Sherlock stops him with a last-minute, "Wait."

Looking mildly surprised, Mycroft turns and raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Sherlock means what he says sincerely, but he is so unaccustomed to showing gratitude that he has to practically rip the words from his throat. He intends to say, "Thank you, Mycroft," but it comes out sounding more like, "Thhh-ank….you…Mm..ycroft."

Thankfully, Mycroft does not do anything soppy, like tear up in joy or somberly nod in earnest. Instead, he just smirks. "Now, now, don't hurt yourself. Wouldn't want you to pull a muscle getting those words out."

Sherlock glares in response, but it has no malice behind it, because he is relieved that the natural order to their relationship has returned. "You're still a pompous git, you know."

"And you're still a stubborn brat."

"Good," Sherlock nods. That's how things ought to be.

With a hint of a smile Mycroft lets himself out, calling over his shoulder, "Best of luck, brother mine."

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock is a man with a plan.

He wakes up at the unholy hour of three am, arms himself with a myriad of cleaning supplies, and sets about fixing up the flat. John is still sleeping, and he'll probably stay in bed until eight-thirty since he doesn't have to go to the clinic today, which gives Sherlock a total of five and half hours to be productive and wipe this place clean.

At four o' clock, when he's on his hands and knees scrubbing at a dried puddle underneath the kitchen table, he is reminded of the only other time he endeavored to clean: John's birthday. Amused, he realizes that all of his attempts at home-improvement revolve around John Watson. Today's efforts will be much different, though, because now he is not only attempting to clean the kitchen, but the entire flat as well. It's certainly doable—whatever Sherlock sets his mind to, he will bloody accomplish—but it will not be an easy task, mostly because he only has a theoretical knowledge of cleaning. An example of his ineptitude being, his complete lack of experience with a Hoover. He's seen John use it from the corner of his eye, running the thing across the carpet in straight lines and asking Sherlock to please move his feet so he can reach the space by the coffee table, but he's never felt inclined to try it himself. He's also undecided on the value of _dusting_, since it seems like a mostly pointless effort. Then there's mopping, which is tedious and involves a lot of things he does not have on hand, like a bucket that isn't filled with intestines and a mop that wasn't used to soak up his spilled plasma experiment last weekend. He also does not have any cleaning soap, because ever since John found out that Sherlock had been using his "good, name-brand dish soap" in several experiments that may or may not have involved pig fetuses, he started hiding the damn stuff.

That leaves Sherlock with only water from the sink, a stack of flannels, two towels, a duster, his own two hands and determination.

Well, he's done more with less.

. . .

"Tonight I'm telling John that I love him," he says to his skull an hour later, as he dusts its eye sockets. "I'm fairly certain he has similar affection for me, but I'm still somewhat…uneasy." Not nervous, of course, because Sherlock Holmes doesn't get _nervous._

The skull peers back without comment, but it looks entirely too knowing for his liking. "Shut up," he mumbles, turning away to dust the bookshelves. "I'm not nervous. I'm just a bit apprehensive. Anyone would be."

. . .

Thirty minutes later, when he's belly-down on the floor of the kitchen, scraping dried blobs of gray something off the wall with a spatula, he notices a mouse hole. He considers it for a moment, measures its proximity to his face, and realizes that if a rodent emerged it would be within biting distance of his face. Sherlock has never given mice enough thought to form an opinion on them, let alone a _fear_, so he remains where he is and goes back to scraping. Five minutes pass before the mouse finally decides to scuttle out of its hole. It stops four point five inches away from his face and stares at him.

Sherlock weighs the likelihood of it having rabies and/or the inclination to bite his nose, since that feature is protruding from his face and therefore the most viable target. A few seconds tick by and the creature makes no move to attack, so Sherlock cautiously pulls himself into a sitting positon and drops his open palm in front of it, wondering in the back of his mind why the hell he is trying to pet a rodent. He supposes he has always been partial to animals—mostly dogs, but mice aren't all that bad, he guesses.

However, because this is not a Disney movie, the mouse does not crawl happily into his palm and allow him to pet it; instead, it dashes away in fear—or perhaps self-preservation, which Sherlock can respect—and hides underneath the fridge.

"You're not going to fancy living under there," Sherlock warns. "There's hardly any food, it's mostly body parts and mold cultures. John and I usually eat out, order takeaway, or have dinner at Mrs. Hudson's, so we don't really need to keep much in there."

The mouse obviously has nothing to contribute, so Sherlock locates the spatula and goes back to scraping unidentified matter off the wall.

. . .

"How the hell do you—" Then, miraculously, the beast turns on with a loud, whirring noise, making the past fifteen minutes of slamming random buttons a success.

Surprisingly, vacuuming is quite easy once he realizes it _literally_ just involves walking the thing back and forth across the room. This is such a simple task that Sherlock mentally resolves to make this his go-to chore the next time John chides him for not helping out; this is far easier than washing dishes or—_god forbid_—ironing.

All is well, until he walks too close to the drapes, and the Hoover sucks them up and begins making an angry, choking noise that startles Sherlock so badly he drops the handle. The vacuum falls on its side and continues to try and swallow down the drapes, all the while screeching and whirring like an infuriated fax machine, and Sherlock, with no past experience to fall back on, frantically rips the plug out of the wall to shut it up.

Blessed silence ensues, and rather than give it another go, Sherlock decides that a half-hoovered room will do just fine.

. . .

At seven fifteen, Sherlock is in the kitchen surrounded by several bags of squishy unknowns, six or seven petri dishes filled with either congealed blood or saliva, two jars respectively marked "Do Not Open until Wednesday" and "Rhubarb", a small vial of violet liquid, and an unceremonious carton of—probably—expired milk.

Cleaning the fridge is, as it turns out, a messy endeavor.

He is having a hard time deciding which experiments he is willing to let go of, mostly because all of them have some sort of significance he has trouble overlooking. Take, for example, the small tub of fingers: he was planning on blending various poisons into liquid metal and reshaping the mixture into rings, to see how quickly the toxins would seep from the ring into a human finger. Think about the kind of murders a criminal could get away with, if no one thought to check the victim's ring for poison! He can't stand the idea of not knowing, so he decides to keep it.

However, as he goes through each bag and bottle, he finds that he is equally compelled to hold onto the rest of his experiments. Namely, his culture of Stemphylium mold, his tray of dissected liver, his vials of acids and bases, his bottles of chemical compounds, and the box of dead silkworms he's been gradually accumulating over the past month and half.

When the clock strikes seven forty-five, and he is still surrounded by the same items he had thirty minutes earlier, he starts to think perhaps he has a slight hoarding problem. He knows what he has to do.

He mournfully drags an industrial-sized garbage bag into the kitchen, and mentally chants "this is for John, this is for John", which only serves to slightly numb the pain as he throws all of it away.

All. Of. It.

He knows he'll have the fridge restocked with a new batch of experiments by next week, but it is still agonizing to toss all of that glorious potential into a Hefty garbage bag.

. . .

At eight thirty-seven, the flat is looking as clean as Sherlock has ever seen it in all of his time living there. The fridge is empty, except for a lone jar of jam and some breakfast (courtesy of Mrs. Hudson), the walls and floor are spotless, the carpet in the sitting room is clean, the bookshelves and tables are dusted to a shine, and all of Sherlock's loose-leaf papers have been stacked and organized in neat piles.

At eight thirty-nine, when John blearily emerges from his room and finds Sherlock beaming proudly at the center of what he probably assumes is someone else's flat—since there's _no way_ theirs is this clean—his jaw falls open with an audible pop.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock greets cheerfully.

"Are you…are you wearing an apron?"

Sherlock glances down and remembers that yes, he is indeed still wearing Mrs. Hudson's floral apron. "Yes. I made tea, would you like some?"

John nods and numbly follows him into the sparkling kitchen. "You did all this?"

Sherlock smiles and places the steaming cup in John's hands. "I did. Mrs. Hudson brought up plates of bacon and eggs earlier, I could reheat you a plate if you want."

"Um, yes, yeah that would be good."

Sherlock swings open the fridge and pulls the plate out, and at the sight of the fridge's spotless interior, John actually gasps. "It's clean. It's bloody_ clean_," John cries, jumping from his chair to get a better look.

Sherlock grins wordlessly and places the plate in the microwave for a few moments. John walks away from the fridge and returns to his seat looking vaguely disoriented, half from sleep but mostly from the shocking discovery of their clean flat.

Sherlock sets the plate before John and joins him at the table, pulling another plate from the counter and setting it in front of himself. "Mrs. Hudson also made waffles, but I know you don't like sweet foods in the morning."

A few minutes into breakfast, John asks, "Sherlock, don't take this the wrong way, but what is this?"

Sherlock sections off another piece of the waffle, focused on the task of gathering as much chocolate in his spoon as possible, and distractedly replies, "Caramel waffles drizzled with chocolate sauce."

"Okay, that isn't what I was referring to, but while we're on the subject, that is _so_ much sugar to start the day off with."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and makes a point of taking an extra-large, chocolaty bite.

"I meant,_ this_," John clarifies, gesturing vaguely around the room. "Cleaning the entire flat out of the blue, when usually I have to beg you just to rinse your dish after dinner."

Sherlock shrugs and affects innocence. "Perhaps I just felt the urge."

John takes a distracted bite of bacon and shakes his head, "No, that's not something you would just 'feel the urge' to do. Are you…" John freezes midsentence when something apparently horrifying occurs to him, panic gradually working its way across his features. In a low, upset voice, he asks, "Sherlock, are you ill? Is this your way of prepping me for the bad news? Christ, Sherlock, how bad is it? Why didn't you—"

"John," he interrupts, placing his spoon down beside his plate. "John, I'm not ill."

"Then…?"

Sherlock clears his throat, and despite his lack of a prepared response, words come tumbling forth of their own accord. "You're always doing nice things for me, so I thought I would return the favor. After all, you do spend a lot of time telling me I need to clean up my messes, so I figured this would be a display of gratitude you'd appreciate."

When Sherlock came up with today's events, he made the decision to save the 'confessions' for the end of the schedule, which is why he has neglected to tell John his true intentions, but what he tells John right now is not a lie either. He truly is grateful to have John in his life, and in a way this_ is_ a display of appreciation (and, unbeknownst to John, _love_)

"Wow," John says, setting his fork down. "I mean, Sherlock…thank you." Then, with a burgeoning smile, he repeats, "_Thank you._ I can't imagine cleaning was fun, but you did it anyway and I want you to know that I really appreciate it."

Sherlock smiles back, something warm and feathery unfurling in his chest at the sight of John's happiness. "Oh, and it gets better."

"Does it now? Because I just saw our fridge without the faintest trace of mold or gore, and I'm not sure how anything could top that."

"Well, I know you are fond of walks in the park, so I thought we could perhaps spend lunchtime there."

John looks well and truly floored. "A picnic? My god, that sounds lovely, but why do I get the impression that you aren't finished yet?"

Sherlock gives him a proud look and inclines his head in confirmation. "Correct, John. I see your deductive abilities are sharpening. After our picnic, I was thinking perhaps we could go out to dinner."

John raises his eyebrows, looking somewhere between shocked and thrilled. "We're going to dinner as well? Christ, Sherlock, where is this all coming from? Is this really just you showing your gratitude?"

Sherlock offers him a lopsided, sincere grin in response. "Yes, John, I don't show my appreciation enough, even though you more than deserve it. Think of this as one gigantic 'thank you John Watson'."

If words like "touched" and "heart-warmed" existed in Sherlock's vocabulary, then those would be the words he'd use to describe the way John is looking at him right now. However, since he most certainly does not have those adjectives at his dispense, he settles with 'happy'

"Anyhow, I happen to know of a lovely French restaurant I'm sure you'll enjoy. Are you familiar with_ L'étoile Brillante?"_

_"_Lay-twall Brill-ee-aunt?" John repeats, butchering the word so fiercely that Sherlock is surprised the entirety of France doesn't come thundering up the stairs to correct him. "No, I definitely don't know it. I'm afraid my knowledge of fine cuisine hits its peak at Angelo's. It sounds great though, Sherlock." John grins.

And see, the thing is, Sherlock kind of loves the fact that John isn't lofty and supercilious like Mycroft, his mother, and—sometimes—himself. He loves that John is content to eat at a little Italian diner or stay home and order Chinese takeaway or eat Mrs. Hudson's homemade roast or—in this case—go to some posh French bistro.

Once, when Sherlock mentioned John's complete lack of pickiness—a topic that arose when John commented on Sherlock's 'ridiculous' aversion to all things green and healthy—John told him, "It doesn't matter what or where I'm eating, as long as the company is good".

Which, in context, meant that he didn't care about the food or setting, as long as he was there with_ Sherlock_.

To test this little interpretation, Sherlock says, "Mind you, it's basically just a sparkly building filled with chandeliers and a bunch of French Mycrofts. You sure you're interested in going? I can always make reservations elsewhere." He's half-serious, actually. If John would prefer to dine elsewhere, he'll gladly change his plans. In fact, John could request that they eat at a bloody Burger King and he'd cheerfully agree.

"Well, you'll be there, won't you?"

"Yes, I certainly will be."

"Then," says John, "that settles it: I'd love to go. In fact, I can't think of a better way to spend my day off."

* * *

The park, as it turns out, isn't as unpleasant as Sherlock remembers.

Though, that _could_ be because the last time he was here, he was twenty-two years old, high as a kite, and curled up on one of the benches with his life savings clutched in his hand, waiting for his dealer to show up. Not a good time in his life, to say the least.

Now, however, he is feeling high on an entirely legal substance: John Watson. They leisurely make their way through the park; John, soaking in nature and smiling peacefully, and Sherlock, reflexively rattling off deductions about the people around them.

"That girl is insecure about her new haircut, which is why she keep ruffling her bangs and tugging on the end of the ponytail. However, it is not just insecurity that plagues this girl: the ragged cuffs of her sweater suggest she picks at them a lot and her nails are bitten down nearly to the cuticle. There is a row of precisely lined-up barrettes in her hair as well as perfectly straight buttons down the front of her cardigan. All are indicative of Obsessive compulsive disorder."

"That man—there—yes, he's married but currently engaged in a string of gay love affairs. If you've noticed, he's stared at the bum of every single male jogger in sight in the past few minutes, without so much as a glancing at the cluster of women—over here—wearing sports bras."

"The couple to your left are cheating on each other with the same woman; they both stink of the same perfume, and her lipstick—pale coral, cheap—is on the neck and shoulder, respectively, of both the man and woman."

"That's just – brilliant. Utterly brilliant," John says in amazement, a smile pulling up the corners of his lips in the most delightful way. Sherlock doesn't say anything, just shoves his hands deep into his pockets and straightens his shoulders in satisfaction, but the small, genuine smile he shoots at John is more than enough to express his gratitude. The two walk in companionable silence, John admiring the park's sparkling pond and Sherlock admiring John's sparkling eyes.

"Did your mum ever take you to the park to feed ducks when you were a child?" John asks, gazing languidly at a group of laughing children crouched near the edge of the water.

Sherlock searches through his childhood memories, but only dinner parties, high-society gatherings, and other dignified, stuffy events surface. He never fed ducks as a child, but that is mostly because he never felt particularly inclined and his parents didn't care much either way. Even if the opportunity had been offered to him he probably would have scoffed at the idea because what was fun about _throwing bread at birds? _He considers saying that now, but John looks like the idea pleases him and Sherlock does not want to belittle something John cares about.

So, he goes with the simplest response and says," No, I did not,"

John raises his brows, surprised. "You haven't? Oh you poor man, you really must experience this. It's one of life's most simple and relaxing pleasures. Come on now, there are plenty of ducks and benches to go around."

Now it's Sherlock's turn to raise his eyebrows. Is John serious? No, he couldn't possibly be…

"Well? What are you waiting for?" John asks. Before Sherlock has a chance to respond, John reaches out and envelops Sherlock's hand in his, pulling him forward, and this small gesture alone is enough to wipe every notion of resistance from Sherlock's mind.

Once they've found a suitable spot, John pulls one of the sandwiches from the picnic basket and tears off a corner. "See? You just wait for a duck to waddle up, then you toss the bread on the floor."

John does exactly that, and then grins. "Fun right?"

Sherlock stares at John out of the corner of his eye and drily decides that 'fun' is not the correct word for it. 'Useless' perhaps? Tedious? John, ever-perception and well-versed in Sherlock's body language, sees that he is bored and quickly makes the entire experience much more interesting by saying, "For every duck you feed, I'll tell you a secret."

Sherlock perks up at this. "What kind of secret?"

John shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "Oh, big ones, little ones. You'll see."

Sherlock has a love/hate relationship with ambiguity, because although it often frustrates him, it is also a surefire way to peak his interest, which he knows John is abundantly aware of.

_Plus,_ this is a glorious opportunity to talk about his favorite subject _with_ his favorite subject. It is a chance he simply cannot pass up, even if it means having to throw food at wild birds in exchange.

"Fine." Sherlock tears off a chunk of bread and waits impatiently for one of the creatures to dawdle over. Eventually, a dirty-looking white duck deigns to make its way to their bench, head raised up expectantly. With a scowl, Sherlock tosses the bread at its feet and watches as it snaps it up and saunters off back to the edge of the lake.

"There. Secret, now."

John stares out at the lake, chuckling. "Fine. The first time I kissed a girl, neither of us really knew what the hell we were doing, and I ended up getting my lip caught in her braces. I was bleeding all down my chin by the time we'd stopped snogging."

"That sounds...painful."

John laughs. "Oh, trust me, it was. It looked so bad that at school the next day, I lied and told everyone I'd been in a fight."

Sherlock tears another chunk of bread off and tosses it aimlessly towards the crowd of ducks a few feet away. "Go."

"In ninth year I had a crush on three of my teachers, one of whom I gave a card and box of chocolates on Valentine's Day."

Sherlock breaks off another portion of wheat-bread and drops it near his shoe, watching as the ducks crowd around and peck at it. "Go."

"On my first date with this girl, Amy, I lied and told her that I too had a glutton allergy, because we had nothing else in common and I really wanted her to like me. Flash forward six months: she was staying the night at my flat and I'd forgotten about the whole glutton thing ages ago, so I didn't bother warning her that nothing in my house was glutton-free. Long story short, she ate a handful of crackers and ended up with hives all over her face and arms. Our relationship lasted about five minutes after that."

A piece of crust, another awaiting mallard. "Go."

"When I was seven, I had a dream I was sitting in a shop eating the most delicious ice cream in the world, except I didn't know the name of the parlor or the flavor of the ice cream. Up until I was ten, I was obsessed with trying every ice cream flavor I could find—pistachio, cookies n' cream, rocky road, mango, mint-chip, strawberry, Neapolitan, cherry-raspberry, butterscotch, black current, orange-crème—in hopes that one day I would stumble across the right one. I didn't, and I eventually moved on, but it's a minor life goal of mine to find that flavor before I die."

As Sherlock makes his way through the rest of the sandwich, he learns that John kind of believes in magic—"I was a big Harry Potter nerd in Uni, alright? I can dream"—that John's favorite color is silver, he has reoccurring nightmares about a clown he saw at a festival when he was six, his least favorite smell is vanilla, he briefly wanted to be a writer in secondary school, he once accidentally called his female teacher 'sir' in preschool and felt so bad about it that he cried, his favorite pet is a dog and his least favorite is a goldfish—"It's not a pet if you can't pet it"—and on his twenty-first birthday he got so pissed he ended up puking all over some girl he met at a club.

An hour later, Sherlock prepares to rip off another piece, when he realizes that the entire sandwich is gone. "I'm…I appear to be out of bread."

"You weren't supposed to throw such big chunks," John laughs. "Oh well. Here, we'll just split mine for lunch."

So they do. John hands Sherlock one half of the sandwich and eats his own half, the two of them sitting side by side on the bench in companionable silence. Sherlock spends his time nibbling absently at the sandwich—he's not particularly hungry—and thinks about all that John has told him. He likes discovering these intricate little tidbits about John's past, because these are the kinds of things he cannot deduce. There are so many layers to John, so many stories and expressions and experiences, that he knows he cannot hope to capture them all in a lifetime, let alone one afternoon. But funnily enough, he finds that he doesn't mind. He likes the idea that he'll never be able to completely figure John out; he likes that John is just as much of a wonderful surprise as he was when they first met.

For a man who is used to knowing everything about everything, this little bit of mystery wrapped up in blonde hair and a jumper is an absolute _blessing_.

"Hey, John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"I think I do like feeding ducks."

And this moment—this perfect, shining moment right here—is a mere _glimpse_ of how incredible being with John will be. Mere hours stand between this less-than-platonic but not-quite-romantic relationship and an entirely new one, filled with love—actual, true-blue_ love_—intimacy, romance, and all other things he never wanted until he met John. His blood thrums with anticipation, excitement bubbling through his veins like champagne and fireworks.

John turns to him and smiles—the kind that lights up his eyes and takes its time spreading across his face like a slow-moving fire—and turns his hand palm-up on his thigh. Sherlock glances down and takes the hint, dropping his hand into John's and squeezing lightly.

"Good," says John, "I'm glad."

* * *

**A/N: So, I suck. Like, big time suck, because I made you guys wait a million years for this chapter, especially when the last update was freaking cliffhanger. I'm so sorry guys, I've just been drowning in my deeply procrastinated AP LANG homework, my stressful family situation, and a whole mishmash of other things that have prevented me from updating on time. I also really struggled with this chapter (and the next) because this is the point where everything is starting to come together and it is so difficult to wrap everything up nice and pretty like a Christmas present. **

**But DON'T WORRY, I will finish this. I promise. *pinky swears with both pinkies* **

**Also-and this is what I am most ashmed to admit-part of the reason I haven't updated, is because I have been neck-deep in Supernatural binges for the past three weeks. I mean, I really did not expect to fall in love with the show so violently, but from the moment I saw episode one I knew I was in for it. I just finished season eight right now and I'm practically_ bursting_ from the urge to word-puke my Destiel feels onto paper, so to all you Supernatural fans lurking out there: EXPECT DEAN/CAS ONSHOTS SOON. **

**But ANYWAY: I solemnly swear I will have part 2 up by Saturday at the latest. And after that I plan to write a handful of chapters throughout the school year (omfg school starts next week for me, what happened to my endless summer). **

**Yo, as usual, feedback would be absolutely glorious. So tell me what you think in the comments, you wonderful people you!**

**THANK YOU GUYS FOR BEING SO UNDERSTANDING. You are all beautiful, lovely darlings who each deserve a million hugs and a muffin basket.**

**Until next time, readers! X0X0 **


	10. Date Night

**A/N: Yes! Finally! That Johnlock kiss is about to go down, guys. I believe I have kept you waiting long enough.**

***important note at the bottom***

**Enjoy, darling readers!**

* * *

It is seven-thirty—a mere half hour before they are scheduled to depart—and Sherlock hasn't the slightest idea what to wear. He's never had difficulty with fashion in the past—mostly because he has never cared enough to fret over something as trivial as clothing—but now that he is about to walk into possibly the most important night of his life, suddenly every last detail is of dire importance. He paces in front of his gutted closet and bites his knuckles, deeply regretting every time he scoffed at his brother for worrying over things like 'color coordination' and 'seasonal materials'.

As a teenager, Sherlock made a habit of shrugging into whatever apparel Mummy put in his closet—because he'd discovered long ago that fighting against her fashion whims was about as useful as arguing with a boulder—and after he moved out, he continued dressing sharply simply out of habit. As he stares at the respective piles of suit jackets, button-down shirts, and trousers, he wonders, in a blinding moment of introspection, what his style is, sans childhood habits and Mummy's chiding. Everything in his closet, from the silk shirts to the designer shoes, has been influenced by either Mummy or Mycroft; there is not a single article of clothing that reflects who Sherlock is. He snags an olive-green long-sleeve down from the top of the pile and absently plucks at its buttons, and thinks to himself that perhaps the reason he has yet to find a suitable outfit is because nothing in his wardrobe accurately represents his personality.

Then Sherlock remembers that his life is not a dramatic soap opera, and the shirt in his hand is not a physical manifestation of his supposed lack of identity, it's a bloody_ shirt_.

"Why the_ hell_ am I worrying over this," he asks out loud, because he feels like it needs to be said and there is currently no one else in the vicinity to say it for him.

He just feels so bloody _weird_. All squirmy and uncomfortable within his own skin, his stomach twisting in knots and his hands sweating as if he were in the Sahara. He tries to tell himself that this isn't a big deal because he's gone to dinner with John on numerous occasions, but Sherlock has never been very good at lying to himself and right now is no different. The truth is, this _is_ a very big deal and it is _vastly_ different from the other casual instances they've dined together.

Sherlock stands in front of the mirror and contemplates his reflection, taking in the typical sight of sharp features and pale skin, and feels unsure of himself.

He restlessly tugs his hands through his hair and wonders briefly if he ought to style it, but thankfully whatever sanity he has left tells him 'hell no', and he banishes the idea almost as soon as it occurs. Besides, what would he even do, anyway? The only hair styles he can successfully execute are 'wet hair from the shower', 'tangled bird's nest', and 'natural chaotic curls'

He physically shakes himself as if to rid his body of its ridiculous worries, and pulls on the nearest shirt. Coincidentally, it happens to be the plum-colored button down that always seems to make John's eyes linger a moment longer than usual. It's an old shirt, one he wore back when he was in his early twenties, and because he'd been far skinnier at the time—courtesy of cocaine—it is now a bit tight around the chest area.

He forces down the little voice that suggests John might like the black one instead, and carefully undoes the first two buttons of his shirt, revealing his customary triangle of pale skin. He's ready to leave, in fact he's in the motion of pulling himself away from the mirror and departing, when a seed out doubt gives him pause.

Slowly, Sherlock moves back in front of the mirror and scrutinizes himself, namely the completely hairless skin right below his throat. _Damn it._

Sherlock stares at his naked chest and silently curses whatever being decided that he ought to be unable to grow a single hair on his chest, giving him the permanent appearance of being freshly-waxed. His inherent follicle deficiency has never bothered him before—_so what_ if he didn't have the ability to grow a beard or a tuft of curls on his chest?—but now he's worried that perhaps it's a turn off. Of course, John has already seen him shirtless a few times—thanks to some particularly nasty gashes along his side and John's insistence to heal him _right there on the spot _instead of just waiting until they got to hospital_—_and he's never showed any sign of disgust, but Sherlock can't help but cringe with doubt nonetheless.

But he's not going to deal with that right now, because this is a rather inopportune time for a body-image crisis. Without another lingering glance at the mirror, he sweeps out of his room.

He finds John in the sitting room, all dolled-up in a sports jacket and styled hair, calmly reading the paper and looking like he's been ready for hours. Which, he actually might have been.

John glances up at him and chuckles. "Christ, were you sewing the clothes yourself? You've been in there for hours."

Sherlock straightens his shoulders and tries to look as dignified as possible, despite the embarrassed flush spreading across his face. "I, er, was distracted by an ongoing experiment I've been keeping in my room. It is a very important bit of research that demands quite a lot of attention."

John smiles, blatantly unconvinced, but seems content to move on. "Alright then, let's head out, shall we?"

. . .

So far, Sherlock thinks, things are going well.

The restaurant is just as grandiose and uppity as he remembers, but rather than seeming annoyed by the atmosphere, John is enamored by it. Sherlock amuses both John and himself by covertly deducing every toffee-nosed elitist in the building, from the mayor's intense podophobia to a waitress's secret love-child with one of the restaurant's regular patrons.

A few minutes after being seated, their waiter arrives: he's young and eager, and was probably informed that Sherlock is an important customer, if his 'desperate to please' smile is anything to go by.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes, we're so glad you've chosen to dine here tonight," he says in a rush, confirming Sherlock's suspicions.

Sherlock offers him a thin smile and nods, "It's a pleasure to be back—" he skims over the boy's name tag, "Joshua. It's been some time since I've come here."

"Well, we're always delighted to have a Holmes in our restaurant," Joshua beams. Then, he schools his features in the same polite detachment the other waiters have maintained, and pulls out a small jotter and pen.

"What can I get for you, sir?" he asks, turning to John with his pen poised over the notepad.

John's menu is closed, which isn't a surprise since Sherlock knows John made up his mind within two minutes of reading it. John is not one to dawdle on choices: he decides he wants something, and then that's that. Quite an admirable trait, actually. "The six ounce fillet mignon, medium well. Thanks."

Sherlock's menu is untouched as well, but it isn't due to any outstanding faith in his decision-making. His menu is closed because he has been here many times with Mycroft and has long since memorized the entire thing, cover to cover. Before the Joshua can ask, he drawls, "And I will have the _Côte De Veau Flambées À La Crème_, as well as a bottle of red _Château Lascombes_ for the table, chilled. That will be all, thank you."

The boy nods, "Yes, thank you, Mr. Holmes. Food will be out shortly," and scoops their menus into his arms, making his departure.

As soon as he leaves, John turns to face Sherlock with his eyebrows high on his forehead. "So, apparently you're fluent in French, a regular patron, _and _you know your way around the menu. I'm—well, 'surprised' would be a lie, so I'll go with 'impressed'." John smiles, that same quirk of mouth he wears whenever Sherlock has done something either brilliant, charming, or both. "What did you order, anyhow?"

"Seared veal with a wine reduction and cream sauce. The bottle is vintage red, by the way. A bit dry for my tastes, but by far the richest flavor I've encountered."

John raises an eyebrow. "Really. And since when are you an expert on drinks? I was under the impression that your little shindig with Molly was one your first encounters with alcohol."

The memory of Mycroft's stern face and careful advice immediately surfaces:

_"__Now, Sherlock, if you're going to truly impress John you must act like a proper, well-informed gentleman. I'm aware you could not care less about the varying types of wines—as evident by your evening with Ms. Hooper—but it will behoove you to know your way around a drinks menu. Listen carefully, brother: the best brand is…"_

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek and tries to appear nonchalant. "Yes, well, I've, er, broadened my knowledge since then." Then, in a moment of self-doubt, he hesitantly asks, "But you do like wine, correct?"

In general, John stays away from alcohol—no doubt put off by his sister's addiction—but from time to time Sherlock has seen him indulge in beer at the pubs, or in lagers from the fridge. Never has John shown any particular aversion or passion for fancy French wine—which he attempted to point out to Mycroft, by the way—but his brother insisted that everyone enjoys a nice glass every now and then. Dates especially.

"I'm not as well-versed as you, but I do enjoy a bit of red from time to time. Besides, I trust your judgment," John smiles, "I'm sure it'll be delicious."

. . .

"How is the steak?" Sherlock asks, as he absently pushes a stray olive around his plate with his fork. John's been silent ever since he took his first bite, and Sherlock is worried that perhaps he doesn't like it.

John, in the midst of chewing, holds up a hand for a moment while he swallows. "Sherlock," he says after a beat, his voice sounding almost _reverent_, "Sherlock it's so—it's just—it's," he pauses, collects himself. In a completely sober tone, he continues with, "Let me put it to you this way: if I could legally marry a piece of meat, my future spouse would be sitting on this plate right now."

Sherlock isn't expecting the bubble of laughter that rises in his throat, but John's comment is just so ridiculously endearing that he finds himself chuckling heartily. "That good, hm?"

Looking down at his plate with an expression of complete bliss, John replies, "_Yes._ Christ, I've never been so pleased by food before. I mean, I feel like I should write poetry about it or something. A blog entry at the very least."

"Are you sure your fans would appreciate an ode to steak? I'm sure they're under the impression that your blog is dedicated to our cases, not our dining experiences."

"Oh, they'll make an exception. A post about this masterpiece would be greatly appreciated by all," assures John, raising his fork to his mouth for another bite. "And what about the veal? How is it?"

Sherlock gives a small shrug and takes a bite. "Well-prepared, aptly seasoned, and cooked to a respectable extent. Not bad. Certainly nothing I wish to revere through written word, but decent nonetheless."

John looks at him, amused. "You make it sound so business-like. Hasn't there ever been a food that has just made you feel, I don't know, _good_? Comfortable, happy, content, etcetera?"

If someone asked Sherlock that question two years ago, he would've scowled and muttered something snippy about asking stupid questions, because_ no,_ _of course food didn't bring him joy_. It was a necessary part of living, no more.

But—like most things which occurred prior to meeting John—that has since changed. The truth is, he _does_ have a favorite food, but his love for it has nothing to do with flavor, and everything to do with the memory he associates it with.

. . .

_It happened on a Thursday during the seventh week he and John had begun living together, right after a successful conclusion to a particularly tricky case. Flying high on the glorious satisfaction of a mystery well-solved, Sherlock allowed John to drag him into a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant which specialized in foods ranging from greasy to heart attack-inducing._

_"__You have to try the chips here," John insisted, eyes bright with eagerness. They were standing in queue, closer than usual, with their shoulders bumping together and their hands occasionally brushing, and the air smelled like grease, salt, a weak spritz of air-freshener—probably to mask the grease—and then, because of their proximity, John. It was the first time Sherlock had been close enough to his flat mate to properly assess the important minutia of him, and he wasted no time in stowing every detail he found into the secret, dark corners of his mind palace: John's eye lashes were honey-colored and short, but they framed his eyes nicely when he smiled, his lips were two shades pinker than the rest of his skin, his hair was a delightful mix of silvers, golds, and blondes, and he smelled unaccountably like cinnamon. He could feel the warmth of John's body heat from where their arms were touching, and despite his lifelong aversion to physical contact, found that he didn't mind. One could even go as far as saying he liked it._

_Later, at their table, John happily dug into the basket of chips, talking excitedly about the case around mouthfuls, looking for all the world like an overly-excited pup. It was then that Sherlock experienced affection for the first time in his life, as he sat there across from John and watched him vibrantly recount their adventure with a range of gesticulations and exclamations. _

_"__Sherlock, try one. Just one. Please!" John persisted, pushing the basket towards him. _

_Sherlock had no intention of sullying his insides with that deep-fried rubbish, but John just looked so happy and eager to share something he thought might make Sherlock equally pleased, that Sherlock found he had a hard time saying no. With a put-upon sigh that was mostly for show, he plucked one up and took a bite. He chewed. He considered._

_"__So, what do you think?" asked John, hopeful as anything. Obviously, this place had sentimental value—John had come here in his youth, judging by the continuous looks of nostalgia—so it was probably very important to him that Sherlock liked the food. _

_Honestly, it tasted like a greasy, overly salted, deep-fried sock, and Sherlock had every intention of telling John exactly that, until John muttered, "Oh wait, you have something just—there," and leaned across the small table to swipe his thumb across the corner of Sherlock's lips, clearing away the spot of grease. That small touch—in addition to the barrage of smiles, kindness, and laughter he'd been privy to those past seven weeks—made a jolt of white-hot pleasure shoot up his spine. In the seconds it took John to pull his hand back, Sherlock realized with a sort of hopeless acceptance that everything in his life had just changed irrevocably, because he was maybe-kind of-sort of teetering on the brink of something dangerously close to __**love**__. _

_And because that sort of thing made people behave senselessly, Sherlock said, "Surprisingly good. Thank you, John," and would forever associate greasy, salty chips with the delicious, terrifying feeling of falling head over bloody heels. _

_. . . _

Sherlock smiles across the table at John, his heart warming at the memory. "I suppose it would be those chips from that little shop on Brantley. It was called _Mortimer's Shack_, I believe? You took me there once."

John looks surprised, but pleased. "You mean Morty's? Yeah, I remember we went there after that double-homicide case. I absolutely love that place, but honestly I'm a little surprised you do too. You're not usually one for greasy snacks, and clearly," John says, gesturing to Sherlock's plate, "you have a much more refined palate."

"True," Sherlock admits. "However, the only reason I enjoy them so much is because they remind me of the early stages of our acquaintance, back when I was just beginning to know you. I associate those chips with the exciting prospect of having not only a new flat mate, but a—_friend_ as well."

The look John gives him is so fond and affectionate that Sherlock finds himself helplessly smiling back. "That's a good reason for having a favorite food, if you ask me," says John with a grin.

. . .

A half hour into the meal, Sherlock gleefully admits that things are going swimmingly. Their conversation has the same easy-going flow it has always had, John has smiled a total of twenty-four times so far, and more than once, vague flirtations have seeped into their banter. All in all, things are decidedly _good_.

Sherlock carefully portions off a bit of veal and raises it to his lips, not because he has any sort of appetite, but because he's aware that John associates how much he eats with how happy he is, and he'd like John to be abundantly aware of how delighted he's feeling right now. Hell, he'd eat an entire buffet service if it would make John realize just how wonderful tonight has been.

"You know," John says, after a sip of wine, "Lestrade phoned me about a case he wants you to look into, it's quite the stumper: double homicide, no fingerprints, no signs of forced entry, and no connection between the victims. I was thinking tomorrow morning we could pop by the station and check out the files. Interested?"

_Yes, immensely_—is what he would have said if this were any other dinner. However, this is a special night that is supposed to be all about John, meaning no cases, no murders, and no Work; just_ John_. Sherlock thinks he's done fairly well so far on this whole 'date' thing, and he is determined not to ruin it.

After mentally reviewing the various 'date scene moves' that are drifting through his mind palace like loose leaves, Sherlock clears his throat and leans forward a bit—_this gesture shows interest, remember_—and smoothly says, "Perhaps. But what I'd really like to discuss is _you_, John Watson,"—_using the subject's full name shows personal interest and attraction_—"so tell me about yourself."

John gives him an odd look, equal parts amused and mystified. "Well, whatever I haven't already told you, you could just deduce, right?"

_Yes, obviously_—is what he would have said if he weren't attempting to woo John. However, he _is_, so he bites his tongue and lifts one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. "Maybe so, but I'd find it much more enjoyable if I heard the words from _your _mouth." He purposefully drops his voice as he speaks the latter bit, since deep voices and vague innuendo are apparently "big turn-ons".

To his surprise, John does not swoon. Instead he appears mildly concerned. "Are you coming down with something? Your voice got a bit odd there."

Flustered and feeling more than slightly ridiculous, Sherlock clears his throat and temporarily hides himself behind his glass of wine. Once he's had a fortifying sip of liquid-courage, he says, "Er, no, I suppose it's the drink that has made my voice rough." To prove his point, he clears his throat longer than necessary and takes a sip of water. "Yes, all better."

John gives him a look that clearly says he's aware that Sherlock is lying, but seems content enough to let it slide. "Okay, what were you saying?"

"Tell me about yourself," Sherlock repeats, this time at a normal octave.

John gives him a lopsided grin. "Well, detective, what do you want to know?"

Sherlock thinks about this question carefully, because there are so many things he wants to ask. What he'd like to know is, _do you think about me half as much as I think about you, and even if you don't, do you think maybe one day you will?_

He wants to know, _why are you my best friend, John, when a man like yourself could have anyone else on the planet? Why do you put up with me?_

He wants to know, _do you want to kiss me?_ _And If I kiss you, John, will you let me? _

He wants to know, _do you love me?_

But Sherlock knows better than to ask any of that, for now anyway, and instead goes with one of the many 'conversation starters' he has floating around in his head. "What is your best childhood memory?"

John's smile grows smaller, but warmer, and his blue eyes take on a look of nostalgia. "Great question. My best memory from when I was a kid is the day that I turned thirteen. I remember I was pulling Harry home in her old red wagon—even though she was ten at the time and way too big for the little thing—and I was whistling Happy Birthday to myself while Harry complained that I wasn't going fast enough. The sun was shining so brightly, the sky a perfect cloudless blue just like my mum's eyes, and I remember turning my face up and soaking in the warmth, reveling in the simplicity of the moment and the fact that I was a newly turned thirteen year old with an entire lifetime ahead. Then I got home and saw my folks out in the front yard, Mum in her apron with a homemade cake—she was an awful cook, but the fact that she made the effort meant a lot—and my old man, looking solemn and proud as usual, holding a hand-wrapped present that I knew had a new set of army men inside. My folks gave me big hugs and said the usual '_I love you_'s and '_happy birthday, Johnny'_s, and Harry even surprised me by pecking me on the cheek and calling me the 'best brother in the world'."

John smiles faintly to himself, seemingly lost in the memory. "That's my favorite memory because it was the last time things in my life were so simple and straightforward. Later that year, Mum and Dad were killed in a car crash, and almost the next day Harry and I were shipped off to my aunt's. From there things went downhill, Harry turning to alcohol somewhere in her late teens and me, squirming to leave the house so badly that I practically leapt at the opportunity to serve. Of course, that wasn't the only reason I signed up, but it definitely impacted my decision."

John's parents' deaths were probably the fourth or fifth thing Sherlock deduced about him during their meeting at the lab, but even Sherlock had possessed enough tact to know better than to mention it. Until now, he didn't known the specifics because John rarely talked about his family, but judging by John's natural independency and intrinsic caretaker complex, he had concluded that they must have met an early demise, forcing responsibility solely on John's shoulders.

Sherlock knows that sharing this was not easy, and he appreciates that John has allowed him into his past. "Thank you, John," he says sincerely.

John nods and looks at him thoughtfully, as if he is trying to figure something out and believes the answers are somewhere on Sherlock's face. After a moment, the contemplative look melts into one of intrigue. "So what about you, Sherlock? Do I get a question now?"

Yes, in the movies the questions _did_ bounce back and forth like a tennis match, and he supposes that means things are progressing perfectly. "Ask away."

"What is a secret passion of yours?"

_Um, you_, his inner voice replies drily. His outer and more socially aware voice, however, replies with, "Dance. I love dancing."

The number of people who know this include his mother—she paid for the lessons—Mycroft—'_it was hardly a difficult deduction, Sherlock'_—and now, John, who is presently staring at Sherlock as if he just admitted that his hair is actually a wig.

"Dancing? Like…ballet?"

"Precisely."

Of all the things he expects John to say, he is not prepared for the earnest reply of: "I _knew_ it!"

Sherlock stares at him because, _no,_ John did not '_know it'_. He is abundantly aware of the man's ability to deduce, and figuring out something like this is far above John's caliber. "How, pray tell?"

John grins, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Well, for one, you've just got this sort of _grace_ about you. Everything you do is elegant, practiced, and in control: you move like a dancer."

Okay, yes, John just said he is graceful, but Sherlock is absolutely _not_ blushing right now, it's simply the heat of this room.

"And two, I may or may not have walked into the flat a few weeks ago and found you doing pirouettes in the sitting room," John's grin widens and his eyes are practically twinkling with mirth, "also, there might've been Swan Lake playing in the background."

And at that, the thing that is _definitely not blush_ engulfs his entire face. "Yes," he says, because there really is not much else to retort with.

John smiles and reaches across the table to squeeze his hand in reassurance. "Hey, no need to be embarrassed. I think it's great that you dance, in fact I'm a bit jealous," he chuckles self-deprecatingly, "Always had two left feet, myself."

"I suppose I'll have to teach you sometime, then," Sherlock replies evenly, taking a draught of water.

To his surprise, John's playful expression melts into a look of sincerity. "I'd like that."

Sherlock places the glass down with a solid _tink_, and stares back. "Good."

And there it is, that sizzling tension burning in the air between them like tangible plumes of smoke, making the hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck stand and his palms grow clammy. He continues looking at John, right into those fathomless blue eyes, and he can't help but feel as if his heart is both breaking and mending at once. It's as if the love he feels—this suffocating, all-encompassing, devotion—is filling up the cracks and crevices of his lonely, untouched heart and making him whole, while simultaneously breaking down all of his walls and barriers, and making him as vulnerable and shattered as a child. But he isn't afraid, because under John's steady gaze, the knot of fear in his chest eases and dissipates, every ounce of worry and tension melting away like snow in summer. There is just something so safe about John, something which makes Sherlock feel protected and appreciated, as if he were a precious item or a rare gem.

The moment is broken when Joshua returns to check the status of the meal, and although Sherlock wishes to berate the overly-eager boy for the interruption, Sherlock knows his intentions were good. Besides, chewing out their server probably wouldn't leave a great impression on John.

"And how is the meal, sir?" he asks Sherlock, almost nervously.

"Excellent. Tell Antoine the veal was perfect as usual, and the addition of chives and dill was truly inspired. Thank you very much, that will be all for now."

"Yes sir," he says earnestly, jerking his head in a quick nod before making his departure.

"Antoine?" John asks.

"Yes, he's a family friend of sorts. Mycroft, my mother, and I frequented this restaurant in my youth, and it was my mother—through her many connections—who got Antoine an audience with its owner, and subsequently, the position of sous chef. Over the years, he has worked his way to becoming head chef, and now that he has, either Mycroft or I make a habit of stopping in and giving him well-earned compliments on his dishes." Sherlock leans in and drops his voice, "Between you and I, I actually don't care for this restaurant all that much. It's pretentious and haughty, and I don't have many fond memories of coming here as a child. Antoine is the only decent thing about this entire pompous establishment."

"You came here as a kid? Christ, I don't imagine that was fun," John sympathizes. "As a boy I could barely stand sitting through an hour-long church service, let alone an entire meal in some posh French bistro."

Sherlock shrugs, idly twirling his fork between his fingers. "Yes, well, my childhood was more or less a whirlwind of 'dignified events' and 'proper manners', which really just means 'stuffy parties' and 'stodgy etiquette'."

"Well," John says, "to your credit, you turned out alright despite all that."

Sherlock's eyes turn playful and he tilts his head. "Just '_alright'_?"

John smirks. "Are there any adjectives you'd prefer instead?"

"Splendid, perhaps. Wonderful, amazing, fantastic," he muses, features schooled into a look of mock-thought. "I might even settle for_ brilliant_."

"Brilliant it is," John decides, hiding his smile around a sip of wine.

. . .

When their dessert arrives, Sherlock finds himself enjoying the sight of John eating cake more than the cake itself.

While he watches John's lips slide off the tines of the fork, Sherlock decides he'd very much like to kiss John. And not just on the cheek or forehead or hair—because even though he loves those areas, what he'd really like to do, what he's craving, yearning for, dying to do, is kiss John's _lips_. He wants to explore the delicious caverns of his mouth, feel John's smile against his lips, grip the sides of John's face and tangle one hand in the back of John's hair and have the two of them just melt together at the mouth.

It's an urge he's never felt prior to John. Kissing always seemed pointless since there had never been anyone in his life that he found attractive or worthy of pursuit. Of course, now that he has someone in his life who is both handsome _and_ worthy, as well as a myriad of other wonderful things, he can't seem to _stop_ thinking about bloody snogging. He has read articles on the chemical, hormonal science of kissing, has scoured textbooks and ripped apart the action down to its very roots, and he has even attempted to dissect it in romantic films. His conclusion is always the same: what's the big deal?

And really, it shouldn't be a big deal, being that it's just a glorified, primitive exchange of saliva. The mere thought of it shouldn't make sparks run down Sherlock's spine or cause his heart to pound faster. It shouldn't reside in the top five section of his 'Things I Desperately Want' list.

Yet, here he is, watching John eat cake and wishing he could kiss the chocolate right off his lips.

He's contemplating his next line of flirtations, when he notices that John's eyes are focused intently on something behind him. Sherlock decides to ignore it for the moment, and starts a conversation about something light-hearted and trivial. However, when John responds, his answers are absentminded and his eyes remain fixated over Sherlock's shoulder.

It is when he says something and John is completely unresponsive, that Sherlock finally prods, "John. John what is it?" John snaps out of it, but doesn't answer him—just goes on eating his cake with a quick smile and a, "it's nothing, what were you saying?"

Sherlock might have been content to just drop it, if John eyes didn't continue to wander over his shoulder throughout the conversation, despite his insistence that it was 'nothing'. Feeling concerned and a more than a little confused, Sherlock turns around and finally lays eyes on what has been the object of John's attention for the past twenty minutes.

It's a woman.

Her curvy figure is tucked snugly inside a skin-tight purple dress, her hair is piled atop her head in some complicated approximation of a bun, her lips are a blinding shade of scarlet, and her eyes are locked onto their table with blatant interest.

A heavy feeling of dread and understanding sinks down in Sherlock's chest like an anchor: John is interested in her. _Her_, some trampy woman with fake breasts and a thousand pounds worth of eye shadow, instead _Sherlock,_ the man who he is currently on a date with. Is it completely unlike John to blatantly disrespect someone like this, to make eyes at stranger while he's dining with someone else—unless…

Unless John doesn't think this is a date. Sherlock realizes, with a sharp stab of distress, that he never outright told John what this day was—not yet, anyway, but now it just seems pointless to say anything since John is obviously only interested in women. And somehow, it hurts even worse that John isn't aware this is a date, because that means the notion of being with Sherlock is so farfetched that it never even _occurred _to him to entertain the thought of it; he just automatically drew the conclusion that this was meant to be friendly and nothing more.

It's amazing how quickly things can go south, considering the fact that a half hour ago Sherlock was nearly drowning in bliss and happiness. Now, however, he feels rather like someone plunged their hand into his chest and ripped his heart out.

Because the fact is this: John likes women, as evident by his staring, and if Sherlock attempts to reveal his feelings as he planned to, he'll only serve to make a fool of himself and embarrass John. He wants neither, which means that the only option here is to clam up, let John think that Sherlock never intended this to be more than a friendly encounter, and silently swallow his despair.

"Sorry, what were you saying?" John asks, flickering his gaze back at Sherlock momentarily.

"Er—nothing. It was…it wasn't important," he says, hating the slight tremor to his otherwise composed tone.

"Excuse me, you're John Watson, yes?" the woman's voice asks from behind him, sounding chipper and starry-eyed. Sherlock grits his teeth and stabs at his cake with more force than necessary when John nods and replies, "Yes, I am. Can I help you?"

She moves from behind Sherlock, putting herself in full view of the both of them, and grins, twisting a hair idly round her finger like some love-struck schoolgirl. "Yes, actually! My name's Sheryl. Me and my friends over there—" she points in the direction of a table full of women, "are _such_ big fans of your blog! You and Sherlock are just amazing! Would you mind popping over for a mo'? It would mean the absolute _world_."

John looks torn between his inclination to say yes and his reluctance to abandon Sherlock. He seems like he's waiting for approval, so Sherlock offers him a colorless smile and nods stiffly. "It's fine." He's already lost John—apparently before he even had him—so he might as well get used to this.

However, as he watches Sheryl lead John over to her table, the sadness in his heart abruptly twists into anger. White-hot, painful, 'clench fistfuls of tablecloth because you're so pissed'-kind of anger. This is not fair. It isn't fair that he has pined after John for nearly a year, and the first time he attempts to do something about it he is completely shot down and replaced by some bint with artificial body parts. It isn't fair that Sherlock's first—and only—opportunity for love is being destroyed by something as bloody stupid as gender. It isn't fair that all of this preparation, all the sleepless nights and cleaned fridges and carefully selected outfits, have been for absolutely nothing. All he has to show for his efforts is a broken heart.

How had he read the signs so incorrectly? He thought every signal pointed to the conclusion that John was just as interested in him as he was in John.

But, considering this development, apparently not.

Something hot and wet pricks behind his eyes, and logically he understands that they are tears, but since he is stubborn as hell, he refuses to believe he's actually about to_ cry_ over this. With a clenched jaw, he wills the moisture away and watches in agony as the scene plays out before him.

He can't hear anything from this distance, but it seems that Sheryl is introducing John to her friends, and John is smiling and shaking hands. Then Sheryl points indiscreetly over at Sherlock, her expression oddly hopeful, and says something to John. John gives her a strange look and laughs in disbelief, fervently shaking his head and saying something that looks like 'no way'

Numbly, Sherlock decides she probably asked if they were together. John points at his chest, uttering something with a confidant expression, and after Sheryl says something presumably negative, John gives her a tight smile and turns on his heel to leave.

From what Sherlock can figure, he probably asked her out or something, and she said no, if John's disgruntled mood when he returns is anything to go by.

"Well that was annoying," John mutters.

Sherlock clenches his jaw and flags down Joshua. "Check please."

. . .

After a tense cab ride home in which Sherlock presses himself against the door and stares bitterly out the window the entire time, John finally breaks the silence as they enter the flat building. "I had a good time, Sherlock."

Sherlock mutters, "Could've fooled me," then brushes gruffly past John, and begins stomping his way up the staircase, feet thudding noisily against the steps.

John catches his mumbled comment and doesn't climb the stairs after him. Instead, he remains at the bottom step with a frown. "And what does _that_ mean?"

"It means, John," Sherlock snaps, "that if I didn't know better, I'd say your date was with _Sheryl_, not me. You were certainly flirting enough to give one that impression."

"What? Wait. Wait, hold on a minute," John stares at him, looking completely befuddled, "you mean to say…you mean, that was a _date?"_

Perhaps it's the genuine surprise on John's face, or the throbbing, sore memory of John chatting up that woman, or perhaps it is Fate deciding that the time for drama is now; either way, Sherlock knows that right here, at this juncture, he has had enough.

Enough of the frustration, the anxiety, the jealousy, the self-consciousness, the caution—he's done dancing around this. So what if this is a lost cause and Sherlock will only be wasting his breath? _So-bloody-what_. He very calmly makes his way back down the stairs, one step at a time, gaze fixed straight ahead. When he reaches the second step, he stops and faces John, who is still innocuously placed on the first step.

His heart is pounding against his ribs like a drum—ba-bum-ba-bum-ba-bum—and the sound is so loud that he can't quite hear what he says next, only that the words are delivered in a low voice quivering with white-hot anger. If he had any presence of mind, he might've related himself to a plucked violin string, shaking violently with fine tremors, vibrating with sound.

In this case, that sound is a shout, and it goes off like a baking soda-vinegar volcano.

"_What do you mean, 'was that a date?' _Come now, John, you're not an idiot! Of _course _this was a bloody date! For Christ's sake, John, _I'm trying to woo you here_!" The word _woo_ doesn't sound quite as powerful as he intended it to, so he compensates by making a loud, irritated growling noise in the back of his throat. "I'm so frustrated, John!" he cries, half-hysterical. "I tried so hard with this, tried to make everything right—hell, I even watched five hours of stupid movies with my brother just to make sure this would go perfectly—and you were too busy gawking at some stupid woman with fake breasts to even bloody realize any of it!"

John's jaw snaps shut and his eyes darken. "First of all, Sherlock, I wasn't 'gawking at her' and I _definitely_ was not flirting with her! You know why I was staring at her so intensely? _Because she was checking you out_! Yeah—her eyes were glued to your bloody bum and face the entire damn night, and when I spoke to her she was asking me for your number! I gladly told her where she could put that request, and then I stomped away, alright? So_, no,_ I wasn't flirting with her."

If Sherlock was in a reasonable state, that bit of information might have given him pause. However, at the moment he still has entire lungfuls of ranting to get out, and he suspects John does as well, so for the time being he shoves aside cool logic and makes way for a torrent of reckless emotions.

"_Brilliant,_ John, and how was I supposed to know that this was the one time you weren't looking for some woman to shag? Because I was only being logical when I made that assumption, since _literally every other occasion_ has involved you attempting to hop into the bed of the nearest female. _Pardon me_ for expecting that pattern to continue! And just so you know, that doesn't change the fact that you didn't even bloody notice what I was trying to do! I don't know how you were oblivious to tonight being a date, but then again I suppose I have a tendency to overestimate your intelligence!"

John's jaw twitches and his expression darkens like a storm cloud swollen with oncoming lightning. He drops his hand down on the support beam with a loud_ thwack_ and grips it, his knuckles turning white from the force. "Don't insult my intelligence, Sherlock, not over this. Because you know what? _You're_ the one who rejected_ me_, remember? The night we met, you made it crystal-bloody-clear that you were 'married to your work' and were 'flattered by my interest, but no thanks'. So how the hell was I supposed to know this was a date? How was I supposed to know you suddenly changed your damn mind?"

"_Changed my mind?" _Sherlock laughs in amazement and glances up at the ceiling, as if looking to the heavens and asking '_can you believe this guy?'_ "John, I've _always_ had feelings for you. You were just too busy shagging every female within reach to notice! The reason I 'rejected you' is because before you, John, I'd never felt attraction, romantic interest, or affection for anyone—_ever_—and it bloody _scared me_ because it meant that a near stranger—you—had control over me. And the problem with giving people control, John, is that they abuse it! People have always left me. Always. If not immediately, then slowly, agonizingly, until I was once again alone, which is what I always strived for because alone was what protected me. I turned you down because I was afraid that if I gave a piece of myself to you, even a small, miniscule piece, you'd stomp on it and desert me, just like everyone else." By the last few words, he finds the anger in his tone fading away.

John follows his lead and lowers his voice as well, and he sounds almost desperate to make Sherlock understand as he earnestly replies, "But I _didn't_ leave, Sherlock. And I don't plan to. Because guess what? I've had feelings for you too, nearly since the beginning. Only, I was afraid of scaring you off because I thought you had no interest in relationships. I didn't want to risk losing my best friend, so I tried to move on and find a nice girlfriend. And I tried, I really did, but you always came first, Sherlock. It didn't matter if I was in the middle of a bloody date: if you called, I would have come at the drop of a hat. You've always been the most important thing in my life, and I'm sorry if I've ever made you believe otherwise."

There is a beat of silence as some of the tension leaves the room, their collective anger disappearing.

Right here, this is the moment that Sherlock needs to say what's on his mind—what's been on his mind for months and months. The atmosphere feels fragile, but Sherlock risks a small, tentative step forward. "John I need to say something. It's important."

_So, so important._ It's absolutely vital that John understands. Sherlock hasn't rehearsed this, hasn't thought about what he'll say or outlined it in an organized script, but these thoughts have been running through his mind for months upon months now, and they come pouring forth as easily as an exhalation of air.

"John, before I met you, no one cared about me and I didn't care about anyone. I was lonely, but I managed to bury it beneath drugs and cases and bitterness. I thought I was content to live a life as some companionless hermit—in fact, if I hadn't met you I probably still would—but, the thing is, I _did_ meet you, and it changed everything. Suddenly I wasn't just a freak or a monster or some friendless loser, I was_ brilliant_ and _fantastic_, and the way you looked at me, John, well, it made me feel like I mattered," Sherlock takes a shaky breath and tightens his grip on the bannister, his eyes resolutely fixed on the area over John's head, because Sherlock is well aware that if he looks at John right now he might lose the resolve to continue.

"You are loyal, kind, good-humored, patient, clever, and—most _surprisingly_—you _like_ me. I don't need to count out how many people in my life have genuinely liked me, John, but I can tell you that the number is hardly impressive. You listen to me, care about what I have to say, put up with strange experiments and violin concerts at three in the morning, and you make the best tea I've ever tasted," he smiles crookedly at that last bit, and risks a glance at John, who beams back in response, his blue eyes shining like beacons. "But the most important thing, the best thing, you've done, is _stay_. I know I irritate you and say the wrong things sometimes, but you've never left me. And I love that, John, I love that so much, and I have so much I'd like to say, so much I love about you, from your eyes to your bloody jumpers, and it's okay if you don't feel as strongly about me, just the mere fact that you have feelings for me at all is more than I could have ever hoped for—"

"Sherlock," John cuts in gently.

"No, no, I need to say this. I'll take whatever you're willing to give me, John, you're beautiful, you're incredible, you're—"

"Sherlock," John tries again, a little more insistently.

"I don't know what my sorry life would be like if it didn't have you in it—"

"_Listen_, you daft man," John says fondly, cutting short Sherlock's frenzied babbling, "I don't just have feelings for you, I love you. As in, I love you as a friend, I love who you are, and, without a single doubt, _I am in love with you." _

And at that, everything in Sherlock's mind palace simultaneously implodes. Bookshelves topple over, locked safes disintegrate, careful stacks of files and documents catch fire, and all of his organized indices scatter to far corners in irreparable bedlam. Everything he knows, everything he thought he knew, ceases to exist in the face of this one impossible, enigmatic paradox of a statement: _John loves him. _

On one shoulder, a manifestation of Sherlock's emotional side calmly says, 'See? John is in love with you. This is everything you've ever wanted, so feel free to remove that panicked look any day now.'

He turns to the voice of reason perched on his other shoulder, but it puts its imaginary hands in the air and mutters, 'Hey, don't look at me. There's no reasonable explanation here. Emotions and love and all that rot don't involve _reason._

"You…love me too?" He feels nauseous voicing the question, because if for some reason he misheard John, he's not sure how—or if—he'll be able to recover.

But John, wonderful, bright-eyed, big-hearted, _perfect_ John, says, almost surprised, "Yeah, Sherlock, of course I do. Of course I love you."

Sherlock blinks and clenches his jaw, not out of anxiety or frustration, but to keep the wetness in his eyes at bay. God damn it, he is not going to cry, that's absolutely not okay. However, these tears—although annoying—are not ones of sorrow. Relief, maybe. Happiness, definitely. The tight ache in his chest loosens and then unfurls entirely as he mentally runs over John's words. Feeling depleted of energy, numb, and a bit shell-shocked, he leans heavily against the bannister and weakly voices his last, withering shred of doubt.

"Are you…are you sure?"

John gives him a small, lopsided, wonderfully genuine smile. "Yeah. I am, Sherlock. I'm sure."

Sherlock nods numbly, because that's what he was expecting (hoping) to hear, and sits down on the fourth step, his legs spilling haphazardly across the second and third. He's not quite sure what to do now, but then, what _does_ one do when everything they've wanted is placed before them on a silver platter? John, apparently in a state of similar uncertainty, sits down beside him and idly nudges Sherlock's leather-clad foot with his own. Sherlock nudges back.

The silence might've lasted for days and they might have stayed there like shy teenagers on a first date for the rest of their lives, if it weren't for Mrs. Hudson knocking her frying pan against the wall and calling from within her flat, "For goodness sake, boys, just kiss already!"

Sherlock turns to look at John, eyes wide, and John stares back at him for a long moment, looking mildly scandalized. Then, John does something surprising. He _giggles_. It's that same breathless, gleeful laugh from their first night together, after they'd chased a cab all throughout London like maniacs. It's the kind of laugh that says "dear god, we're mad, aren't we?", and it's the kind of laugh that is entirely appropriate for two fools who have apparently been in love with each other for ages and were unaware of it until minutes ago. It doesn't take long for Sherlock to join in, and when he laughs, he laughs with his entire being, happiness bubbling in his veins like champagne, fireworks and nuclear explosions of relief bursting along the seam of his ribs. He laughs until the roaring fire in his chest dies down to a soft glow, until John's grinning mouth settles into a content, crooked smile, until John's hand finds itself intertwined with his, warm palms pressed together like perfect puzzle pieces.

In the quiet, happy lull afterwards, Sherlock leans his shoulder into John's and says, "John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"Would you mind terribly if I kissed you?" Because he can do that now, ask and receive, and it feels absolutely bloody brilliant.

John looks so unbearably endeared by his request that Sherlock finds his face growing warm—but he's _not_ blushing, because Holmeses do not blush. John grins, saying, "Oh _god_ yes," and Sherlock doesn't have time to notice the parallels between the first time that quote was uttered and right now—both being the words that catalyzed whole new existences—because as soon as the words are out of John's mouth, he's placing a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him down, and slotting their mouths together so easily, so naturally, that one might think they've been doing this for a lifetime.

Sherlock isn't sure what to expect, but the moment his mouth melts into John's he finds himself extremely relieved that this is a how a proper kiss feels, rather than the horribly overdone ones from films. At first, the kisses are chaste and sweet, just a gentle press of mouth to mouth. Pleasant. Then, after the first few pecks, John deepens the kiss by latching onto Sherlock's bottom lip and sucking lightly, eliciting a low moan Sherlock wasn't even aware he was capable of making. John kisses him slowly and leisurely, drawing out each slide and press of lips as if sipping a fine wine, savoring each and every motion. His senses are nearly overwhelmed by the myriad of smells and tastes and textures that accompany kissing John: the soft, gray-blonde hairs he is currently carding his hands through, the cloying taste of dessert on John's lips along with the delicious flavor that appears to be entirely John's own, and the intoxicating scent of sweet, musky cinnamon that hangs in the air like perfume.

Sherlock grabs John's shoulders to have some sort of anchor, because if he doesn't hold on to something, he's going to either melt into a puddle or pass out right here on the staircase, and that would mean they'd have to stop snogging, which is something Sherlock plans to avoid at all costs.

The kisses in films—although in sync, choreographed, and perfectly executed—are absolutely_ nothing _compared to this kiss right now. Sherlock's blood is pumping through his veins as if he just sprinted a marathon and his heart has become a loud, wild thing thumping madly within his chest. God—this just feels so damn good. Forget cocaine and cases and all that rot, kissing John is entirely on its own plane of pleasure.

"You're—making—me—feel—like," John gasps between kisses, because breaking contact for more than one word at a time is just not going to happen, "a—bloody—randy—teenager."

Sherlock hazily decides that's a compliment, and shows his gratitude by licking along the seam of John's lips in one languorous stroke. John jolts like he's been electrocuted and practically devours his mouth in return, muttering "Bloody hell, Sherlock" against his swollen, red lips.

John's fingers crawl up the back of Sherlock's neck and tangle in his dark curls, slowly massaging small circles into the back of his skull. The sensation sends sparks of pleasure straight down his spine like lighting and Sherlock finds himself involuntarily tipping his head back into the touch with a sigh. John immediately takes advantage of Sherlock's exposed throat and begins working on a love bite on the side of his neck, alternating between sucking gently and lavishing the flushed area with wet, open-mouthed kisses. Sherlock, unable to do much but babble encouragement and moan, grabs John's waist to pull him closer, which quickly results in Sherlock lying on his back across steps one through six, and John straddling him with his legs folded on step three, and his arms bracing himself up on step five.

John pulls his mouth away from Sherlock's throat long enough to huff a laugh and mutter, "These stairs aren't all that big, are they."

An answer is about to emerge from the lust-hazy pile of matter he once called a brain, but then just as quickly as he stopped, John is back to kissing Sherlock's neck, and any trace of coherent thought is wiped clean.

"Mmm," Sherlock mutters, threading his fingers through John's hair. He arches his neck to give John easier access. "That feels quite…" the words drift away once John's tongue flicks against his pulse point, and he doesn't bother trying to remember them. Who needs complete sentences anyway? Grammar is useless and silly compared to whatever it is John's doing with his mouth…

Sherlock then promptly shuts down all thought and surrenders himself to sensation.

A vaguely concerned voice reminds him that they are currently out on the staircase where virtually anyone can see them, but then John does that delightful thing with his tongue again and the little voice is happily silenced.

"Let me—can I try that?" Sherlock pants, moving his face down to nuzzle John's neck, his breath coming out in hot puffs against John's skin.

"Yeah—yes," John replies breathlessly. Sherlock maneuvers John out of his lap and backs them up until John is sitting on the sixth step of the staircase and Sherlock is crouched over him, his large hands cradling the back of John's head and sides of his face. "You—are—so—beautiful," Sherlock declares, punctuating each word with a sound kiss. John smiles against his lips and appears to be on the brink of responding, before Sherlock does as promised and moves his mouth down to John's neck. He starts slowly, a bit unsure of himself as he sucks lightly at John's pulse point, nipping intermittently between kisses. It feels immeasurably pleasing to know he is leaving his mark on John, something the entire world will be able to see, and his soaring heart flies even higher when John moans in encouragement.

"Do you know—how long—I've wanted to do this," Sherlock pants, kissing a lazy trail up the side of John's neck. "I used to think—this kind of stuff—was stupid, but now…" he trails off as he worries John's earlobe between his teeth, distracted, and John makes a noise that is half breathless laughter and half another moan. "But now _what_, Sherlock?" John prompts, sliding his hands up the back of Sherlock's head and entwining his fingers in curls.

"But now—I believe this is quite—_good."_

"Mm—I suppose that's a pretty decent word for it. Though I'd probably say something more along the lines of—ah—amazing."

Once there is a sufficiently visible wine-colored mark on John's neck—_mine,_ he thinks to himself—Sherlock pulls away and refocuses back on his mouth, pressing soft, sweet kisses to his now swollen lips.

"John," Sherlock murmurs, against his lips, "You—are—brilliant," each word punctuated by a lingering kiss. He pauses and pulls away, his hands securely holding the sides of John's flushed face, attempting to commit every detail to memory. John's mouth is pulled into a rosy grin, his eyes are so bright that it nearly hurts to look at them, and bits of blonde-gray hair are sticking up from where Sherlock tousled it with his hands. In short, John looks utterly wonderful.

"Wasn't bloody expecting that," John breathes, the giddiness clear in his voice.

Sherlock, still quite dazed, nods in agreement, a dumbstruck smile hanging loosely on his lips. "I love you," he says, just because he_ can_ and it feels absolutely delicious to finally be able to say it after all this time. "I love you, John, so much."

John's eyes get all soft and melty when he says that, affection practically seeping from his pores. "I know," he says quietly. "I love you too."

"Good," Sherlock decides, standing up and pulling John with him. "Now, I may or may not have rented those James Bond movies to watch. Interested?"

John grins and climbs to the step above them, so that he and Sherlock are eye-level, and plants a firm kiss on Sherlock's temple. "I'd love that. I'll make the tea, come on."

And Sherlock allows himself to be guided up the stairs to the flat, John's hand securely wrapped in his like an anchor, like a promise, as he basks in the scent of cinnamon in the air and the taste of John on his lips.

* * *

**Okay, so there's a lot that I want to say to you guys, but I'll try to make it brief by breaking it down into three concise parts:**

***Reader's Note**

***Personal Note**

***Story info**

**Readers: first of all, I just want to thank you guys so much for reading this story, helping me along the way with your wonderful comments, and just being an overall inspiring audience. Every review, every favorite, and every follow means so much, guys, especially because this was the first multi-chaptered story/Sherlock fanfic I've ever attempted to write, and the encouragement has helped me so much. You guys are so awesome and I'm immensely lucky to have you as my readers :) *hugs and kisses you all* *gives you each a muffin basket***

**Personal: As strange as it sounds, I actually feel like this story helped my writing improve. I don't know if you guys noticed, but there is a world of difference between chapter one and the more recent updates, which I find really neat because I've never been able to properly gauge my own improvement before and this story has helped me do exactly that. This was not only an insanely fun summer project, but a great exercise for my writing skills as well and I'm so glad I did it. :)**

**Story: Don't worry guys, despite this 'goodbye'-sounding author's note, I'm definitely not done with this story. While I settle myself back into my school/sports routine this story will be on hiatus (not sure how long). After that, I have four solid chapters planned out, but who knows, I may write more than that. (Believe it or not, I originally intended for "Definitions" to be two-parts, which just goes to show that my plans often change). As a little sneak preview, I'll tell you that the chapter following hiatus will include Harry Watson, and then a later chapter will include a double date with Lestrolly. Yay! In the meantime, I plan to go back on later chapters and edit a bit, since I know I made some grammatical errors and typos, and delete the old author's notes, just to clean things up a bit. (So, if you see mistakes let me know! I beta my own work and more often than not, I miss errors, so it'd help if you pointed them out!)**

**Wow, okay despite my best efforts that really wasn't concise, but oh well.**

**Anyway, I love you guys, don't forget to comment, and I'll see you after hiatus!**

**X0X0**


	11. A Harry Situation Part 1

**A/N: It's been so long and I've missed you guys! I've also really missed writing this story :,) **

**Hope you guys like this chapter, it's a two-parter!**

***important info about story in endnotes***

**Enjoy!**

* * *

For the most part, things remain unchanged.

Sherlock still leaves numerous petri dishes of mold spread across the table—_where we eat food, Sherlock_, John exasperatedly reminds him—and John still spends too much time watching ridiculous films and trite reality shows (though John heartily denies that his shows are anything less than brilliant). Sherlock still dives headfirst into cases and drowns the rest of the world out for a bit, and John still goes to the clinic and loses himself in the care of his patients; the only tangible differences between Then and Now are the quick kisses exchanged right before John leaves for work or how Sherlock falls asleep curled around John now instead of a ball of crumpled sheets. Any feeble physical boundary that may have existed Before has now been completely decimated: hand-holding, a casual brush of shoulders, lips to temples; they're practically connected at the hip, now.

To say it is not a domestic existence would be a lie, because although they don't do dishes as a couple or shop for the groceries together, they somehow find their own niche of domesticity and companionship to fall into: one which includes crime scenes, lunches at Angelo's, movie nights_—'James Bond again, John? Really?'_—and the occasional lightning-fast display of PDA.

It is, in fact, a perfect existence rife with the most pleasant imperfections.

* * *

As far as Wednesdays go, this particular one leaves much to be desired.

It is hellishly warm, the clues of this case are as obvious as the Yard detectives are oblivious, and Anderson will _not stop_ spouting ridiculous theories he has based entirely off a 'gut feeling' despite the blatant contradictions splayed out before him (aka, the pieces of bloody evidence, which—contrary to _Phillip's_ apparent beliefs—are not just there are decorations).

"Anderson, I have a suggestion for you," Sherlock says slowly, as if speaking to a toddler, "perhaps if you attempted to pull your head from your arse, you'd find that it's far easier to speak like someone with more than three collective brain cells!"

With nearly comical indignation, Anderson cries, "_Excuse me_?" at the same time John snaps, _"Sherlock!"_

Since Sherlock has a particular fondness for John—and a particular fondness for ignoring Anderson—he decides to entertain John's exclamation first. "Yes, John?" he asks innocently. He's well aware of how John feels about his scathing commentary at crime scenes—even when they're directed at someone as deplorable as Anderson—but he hopes that if he looks innocuous enough John will chalk it up to his lacking social skills and save him the lecture. To complete his image of saintly intentions, Sherlock even cocks his head to the left and widens his eyes just a fraction. "Is something the matter?"

If John's deadpan expression is anything to go by, then _yes_ something is definitely 'the matter'.

"Come here a minute, will you?" John asks; though, Sherlock finds that the question mark in his tone is unnecessary, since he doesn't seem too inclined to wait for a response as he grabs Sherlock's sleeve and bodily removes him from the crime scene two seconds later. Feeling very much like a child about to be chastised, Sherlock allows John to guide him away from the crowd of detectives and onto a park bench. They're only a couple dozen feet away from the crime scene—which is currently occupying a decent portion of the park's wide lawn—so Sherlock can still observe the progress of the case while simultaneously listening to John's lecture about etiquette. When John takes a deep breath, Sherlock thinks he is going to begin his speech—perhaps he'll highlight the importance of not telling people where they can stick things, or how polite adults don't speak of heads being in any vicinity of the arse—but then John surprises him by chuckling and sitting down next to him.

"I'm not going to waste my breath telling you that was rude, because you already know that." Still smiling, John scoots closer so that their sides are pressed together from shoulder to elbow. "Between you and me, I was getting bloody sick of Anderson's 'the girlfriend did it' theory—her alibi was confirmed two days ago for Christ's sake—and I'm glad someone finally shut him up."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows so far that they nearly touch his hairline. "So you have no intention of chastising me?"

John looks at him sideways. "Well, if you were really looking forward to a lecture on manners, then I suppose I could muster something up…" he trails off.

"Nope!" Sherlock pronounces, popping the 'p'. "I'm quite alright, thank you. However, I wouldn't mind having a, er, a…" Sherlock trails off awkwardly, his eyes suddenly falling to his feet. Despite the fact that he and John have been in a relationship for several weeks at this point—after living together for years—Sherlock still finds himself unable to ask for physical affection.

Like, for example, kissing.

It just seems so strange to formally request such a thing—he has little social awareness to boast of, but even he knows that would be a cringe-inducing experience—but it seems equally strange to just swoop in and assault John's mouth without warning. Scheduling such a thing beforehand would be too technical and dispassionate and doing it impulsively would be far too risky; though he knows the chances of John turning him away are next to nil, there's still that slight 0.00001 percent chance that he might reject him and Sherlock cannot bear to risk it, even with those unlikely odds.

It is then that he remembers he started a sentence without finishing it and John is still looking at him, patiently waiting for him to go on. After another prolonged moment of unsure silence, John gives him a lopsided smile and drops a hand on his knee.

"You don't have to always ask, you know," he says kindly, placing his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, slowly guiding their faces together. Sherlock hums in contentment and tilts his head slightly to the right while John tilts his slightly to the left, his heart pounding in his chest just as fiercely as it had four weeks ago, when this first occurred. As soon as his lips meet John's, he can't help but grin against his mouth, happiness bubbling in his veins like champagne. The kisses are chaste and sweet, just a warm, delicious press of mouth to mouth, but he feels as though he is drowning in emotion; he suspects that no matter how many times they do this, there will always be that melty, elated feeling stirring in his chest.

Which is why, of course, Anderson and his obnoxious, grating voice have to butt in and interrupt everything. He saunters over, hands on his hips, all indignation and annoyance. "So he gets to just _swoop_ in here, criticize everyone, turn this crime scene upside down, and then leave us with the mess so he can snog John? What the bloody hell is that about? I thought we were all_ professionals_ here."

Sherlock pulls away reluctantly, a fresh arsenal of Anderson-specific insults ready on his tongue—it's one thing to muck up a case, but to interrupt him and John? That's practically a capital offense in Sherlock's book.

"Pardon me, Anderson, I was under the impression that you and your _brilliant_ ideas didn't need my consultation; I thought you'd be content to muddle around with the evidence and bore everyone within your vicinity_ without _my presence."

Anderson's face glows a rather unbecoming shade of red. "Why you smarmy little—"

"Ahem," Greg interrupts, ever the pacifier. "Phillip, go take this to Donovan, will you?" The DI hands the man a clipboard with blank papers. It's clearly a useless errand, but he seems to understand that Greg is very kindly sparing him from yet another Sherlockian verbal onslaught, so he accepts the clipboard and scurries off, his pinched face offering Sherlock one last glare.

Once the git is out of sight, Lestrade turns to face Sherlock and John. "So," he says, raising his eyebrows. "You two finally saw the light, eh?"

John flushes and looks at his shoes—in the most adorable bloody manner Sherlock has ever seen—but Sherlock himself just plasters on a smug expression and quirks an eyebrow. He throws his arm around John's shoulder and tugs him close against his side, a look of pride and a hint of possessiveness sparkling in his pale eyes. "Yes," Sherlock states. "We have."

John takes the hand over his shoulder and interlaces their fingers, the flush replaced by a matching look of pride. "We've been together for a few weeks now." It has an distinct challenging edge to it, almost as if he is daring Greg to say something bad about the whole thing. Sherlock finds this odd because it never occurred to him that anyone might oppose their partnership, least of all Lestrade, who has stood by Sherlock's side for years and saved him from countless brushes with addiction—but then again, John doesn't know the man as well as Sherlock, so perhaps it's understandable that he's a bit wary.

But, just as Sherlock expected, Lestrade smiles. "I'm really happy for you boys," he says, patting Sherlock's John-free shoulder. "Bout damn time if you ask me."

"I agree," Sherlock concurs soberly. "This took _far_ too long."

"But you know what this means, right?" The DI grins and rubs his fingers together, indicating money. "I just made about fifty pounds thanks to you two—the Yarders and I have had this big wager going on about when you'd finally get together, and thank my lucky stars I chose from this month to next month. Sally's money was on next Christmas and Anderson was sure you'd hook up about four months ago."

John snorts. "Really, Greg? A bet?"

"Yup," he replies, unashamed. "And alright, maybe I had a bit of an unfair advantage because Molly _may or may not have_ indicated that things were coming together with you two, but that lot doesn't need to know that." He winks. "Hey, and speaking of Mol, would you guys be interested in a 'double date' sometime in the future?" The man winces. "Yeah, her words not mine. She's been talking about doing something like that for days—help an old chump out, will you?"

John smiles. "Glad to help, Greg. We'd love to, right, Sherlock?"

"In any other case I'd rather swallow my house keys, but since I find you and Molly reasonably pleasant, I suppose one evening wouldn't hurt."

Lestrade grins. "Now don't get too sappy there, Sherlock, you'll make me think you've gone soft." He chuckles good-naturedly. "Anyway, I'll let you two go back to what you were doing. When you're less, er, _preoccupied_, Sherlock, do you think you could pop over and clean up after Anderson yet again? The bloody idiot is currently trying to convince the rest of the detectives to agree with his mad belief that the girlfriend killed Samuel Novak. Damn fool."

* * *

Two months later, it occurs to Sherlock that he ought to meet John's family. That is typically the protocol for being in a committed relationship, isn't it?

"John," he says one morning over breakfast. "I would like to meet your sister."

John drops his slice of toast and it lands in his coffee cup. He blinks. "Pardon?"

"Your sister," Sherlock repeats, figuring it's too early in the morning for John to properly register his question. "Harriet."

"Ah. Right. Yeah, that's what I thought you said. Not so sure that's a good idea…" John fidgets, looking far more uncomfortable than Sherlock feels the situation merits. Why does the notion of Sherlock meeting his family make him so displeased? In one horrible moment, it occurs to Sherlock that perhaps John is…ashamed of him.

Admittedly Sherlock isn't the most normal bloke, or the nicest, or even the most social; he's a strange, gangly consulting detective with more affection for dissections and chemical experiments than for socializing or being around others. He's awkward and bad at comprehending cues, and despite his polite upbringing, his manners are severely lacking.

It's no surprise that John is reluctant to introduce Sherlock to his sister.

"Er, never mind. I understand your reluctance," he mumbles, ducking his head. He makes a point of going back to reading his online article, even though he isn't registering a single word.

"Wait, hold on a minute," John says, sounding worried. "You definitely_ don't_ understand; Christ, Sherlock, it's definitely not because of you that I'm reluctant, it's because of my bloody sister!"

The relief that floods through his chest is immediate and all-encompassing. "Oh," he says quietly.

John puts down his fork with a loud clink. "Sherlock? Look at me."

He does.

"Listen to what I am about to say, alright?" John takes a deep breath. "I could not be more proud to be with you; you're brilliant, clever, charismatic, honest, and bloody _gorgeous_, and I am the luckiest person on the planet to be able to say that I am with you—understand? The reason I'm a little…uncomfortable with the idea of you and Harry meeting is mostly because my sister is the most difficult person in the world and I really didn't want to subject you to—_her_ so soon."

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek and flutters his fingers against the table. "I love you," he blurts out, because the words are true and imperfectly timed, and just _there_ on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be said.

John reaches across the table for his hand and brushes his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles. "I love you too. We'll talk about this later after I've thought about it a bit more, yeah?"

Sherlock squeezes John's hand and nods, deciding that he can wait until 'later' for John's sake.

. . .

As it turns out, 'later' is three days into the following week, when Sherlock is in the kitchen hunched over his latest experiment and John is reading the paper in the living room.

Out of nowhere, with absolutely no preamble, John lowers his paper and says:

"I just don't know how I should tell her."

It's then that Sherlock decides John is very lucky to be with an intelligent person, because any other civilian would immediately reply with "huh?" and have no bloody idea what he was referring to. However, since Sherlock's mind is superior in every sense to a civilian's, he immediately understands that John is referring to his reluctance to reveal their relationship to Harry.

"Well, John," he says, pulling off his goggles to see John better. "If you fear she'll turn away from you for being with a man, then I must remind you that your sister is a _lesbian_. I highly doubt this will be problematic."

John frowns at him over the edge of his paper. "Yes, thank you, Detective, I'm well aware that my sister is gay. That isn't what I'm worried about."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows expectantly and waits for elaboration.

"Harry…Harry isn't exactly the most welcoming person," John begins hesitantly, "My past girlfriends have always been either intimated or scared off by her because she is quite protective. And quick to judge. And, er, a bit tactless at times. I just don't want her to give you the 'you don't deserve Johnny so you better treasure him' speech."

"I already know that I should treasure you, John," is Sherlock's genuine reply. "There is nothing she will tell me that I am not already abundantly aware of."

John flattens his paper against his lap, looking at Sherlock with warm eyes. He makes a humming noise and smiles, but seems to know better than go on a long, emotional lecture—though, clearly he would like to. For Sherlock's sake, he expresses his affection with a meaningful pause and then moves right along. "She can be a difficult person to get along with, alright?"

Sherlock snorts. "If you haven't noticed, John, I'm not the easiest person on the planet either and you tolerate me just fine."

He huffs a sigh. "Right, but she can be judgmental, rude, snappish, overly blunt…"

Sherlock carefully places the next swab of genetic material beside his microscope. "Sounds like a perfect description of me."

"She has a dark sense of humor," John argues.

"As do I."

"She _really_ doesn't like posh people because they intimidate her, so she lashes out by being defensive and snappy."

"John, you hardly need to worry about that. I'm not posh," Sherlock scoffs. Christ, what is John worried about? It isn't as if he's_ Mycroft_ or some rubbish.

John doesn't take his eyes off the sports section, but an amused smirk works its way onto his lips. After a significant beat of silence, he says "Yes, you're right" in a mild tone that practically screams 'no, you're wrong'.

Affronted, Sherlock says, "Oh, so you do think I'm posh?"

The blossoming smile becomes a full-blown grin and John briefly flicks his gaze in Sherlock's direction, his eyes bright with fondness and humor. "You're the poshest bloke I know, but I love that about you. It's one of the main components that makes you _you."_

Sherlock harrumphs and makes a dramatic show of peering through his microscope, feigning offense. "What_ever_."

Untroubled, John continues on. "You two just seem too…_similar_ to get along, you know? I feel like you'd butt heads the entire time and no one would have fun."

He glances away from his experiment to meet John's eyes, surprised to find that they hold genuine worry. He sighs and turns on his stool to face John. "I know you have your worries—as unfounded as they are—but it would mean a great deal to me if I met your sister. I feel that since we've been in a relationship for a few months now, it's only proper that I acquaint myself with your family. That's what one usually does, correct?"

John smiles crookedly. "And since when are we conventional?"

"Well, in any other case I'd be inclined to ignore social norms, but in this instance I'd very much like to conform to the _status quo_, as they say."

John grins, clearly won over. "Fine, you can meet her. But first I have to figure out how I should segue into the topic of our relationship. She doesn't really know about 'us', since I've written her pretty sparingly over the past few months." He pauses, considering something. "Here, I'll practice on you." John clears his throat and straightens his shoulders, "Listen, Harry, I know I should have told you sooner, but Sherlock and I are dating."

Sherlock glances up from his experiment with a long-suffering look. "Must you call it that, John?"

"Well, that's what this is, isn't it? Dating?"

In return, Sherlock frowns moodily and adjusts the next plasma slide. "It's a partnership, John. We're not _dating_. That term sounds far too plebian."

Amusement dances across John's face and a smile threatens to flick up the corners of his mouth, but he does an impressive job of holding it in. "But we go on dates," he points out.

"_No_, we go out to dinner occasionally."

John hums in mock consideration. "Okay, so then what are we?"

"We're partners—"

"Lovers."

"Companions—"

"Boyfriends."

"Romantically involved flat mates!" Sherlock exclaims, exasperated.

John finally loses the battle of keeping a straight face, and with a wide grin he snorts, "_Romantically involved flat mates_? Really, Sherlock? Don't you think you're being a little bit ridiculous?"

"No," Sherlock returns primly, making a point of shifting his focus back to his microscope.

John chuckles to himself and ruffles the newspaper, straightening it so that the paper stands up high over his head. From behind the sports section, he asks, "Alright, then what shall I call us when I'm speaking to other people?"

"Sherlock and John."

John flicks the paper down for a moment, solely to deadpan. _"How creative."_

Sherlock sighs again and adjusts one of the focus dials. "So you'd like me to refer to you as my boyfriend, then?"

Drily, John replies, "I'd actually prefer 'wildly passionate lover' if it's all the same to you."

"It isn't," Sherlock snaps, without malice. "I'll eat my left shoe before I call you that."

There's only silence in reply, so after a moment Sherlock glances up to gauge John's reaction, only to find him absent from his chair. He has two seconds to wonder where he went before a pair of lips find themselves at his cheek. Sherlock jumps briefly in surprise—Christ, John can be quiet and sneaky when he wants to—before he grins and turns his head to meet John's lips with his own. John cups the sides of his face in his warm, rough palms and presses their mouths together. After a few lazy slides of lips, John moves around the chair so that they are face to face.

With bright eyes, he asks, "Unless you'd like to snog on a stool in the kitchen, I suggest we move to the living room?"

Since John's mouth has a funny way of short-circuiting Sherlock's brain, he just nods dumbly and allows himself to be ushered into his chair, where John immediately crawls into his lap and begins sucking a bruise into his neck.

"Want to—kiss you," Sherlock mutters, running his hands over John's arched back, digging his nails into the material of his ridiculous (adorable) argyle sweater. Instead of slotting their mouths together like Sherlock would so desperately enjoy, John just smirks and tilts his head away. Sherlock attempts to kiss him again, but John persistently dodges his lips.

"John, stop," he murmurs against John's chin, attempting to plant his lips on his intended target. John huffs laughter and angles his head away even more, presenting Sherlock with only his throat to ravish. Always an appreciator of a good opportunity, Sherlock latches on to the warm skin of John's neck, sucking lightly; after a moment he pulls a centimeter away. "Let me kiss you," he complains petulantly, caring very little that he sounds like a spoiled child being denied a treat. John chuckles again and Sherlock feels the vibration of it on his lips as he kisses lazy patterns up the side of John's throat.

"What am I?" John asks, a hint of teasing in his voice. He brushes his fingers affectionately through Sherlock's curls.

"My date," he says into John's Adams apple, his hands running lazily over John's back.

John hums in agreement. He sinks down so that his face is within kissing-distance. "And?"

"My boyfriend," he murmurs against the jut of John's jaw.

"And?" John prompts, leaning instinctively into the kisses.

"My wildly passionate lover," he finishes, then almost dies of joy when John grabs the sides of his face and finally snogs the holy hell out of him. By the time John pulls away three uninterrupted minutes later, Sherlock is panting so hard one might think he'd just run a marathon.

Satisfied, John climbs out of Sherlock's lap and returns to his own chair, a look of mock seriousness on his face. "Glad we got that settled, my _equally passionate lover_."

Still boneless with happiness, Sherlock just smirks and shuts his eyes, deciding that he'll call John the bloody _Emperor of the Universe_ if it means getting kissed like that again. "So that's a yes to meeting Harry then?" He mumbles.

John hums in consideration. "You know what? Yes. I think it would be a nice idea. I'll phone her tonight and set something up, sound good?"

"Sounds great," Sherlock sighs, smiling to the ceiling and thanking every star in every galaxy that this is somehow his life.

* * *

**A/N: So, lovelies, what did you think? I had so much fun revisiting this story, since most of my writing these days has been rhetorical analysis, 5-paragraph essays, and précis after précis. **

**INFO: OKay, so yay Hiatus is over! Here's some new things y'all should know:**

***since it's no longer summer I won't be posting lengthy chapters like I used to (there just isn't enough time). Typical word count from now on will be around 3-5k, which still isn't too bad compared to some other stories**

***there are at least FOUR guaranteed chapters coming up, but who knows, I might add more depending on inspiration and any ideas you guys might have :3**

***the latter part of that last one leads me to my next point: if you guys have any scenarios/ moments/ mega small clips of dialogue or minor conflicts you'd like me to incorporate into future chapters, then I'm all ears! I love hearing your guys' ideas, in fact they're what helped me through this story from the very beginning :)**

*** as for updating times, I honestly have no idea. I currently have 2 other in progress stories on the backburner as well as a whole mishmash of endless homework assignments and academic/social/athletic obligations to attend to, so I can't make any promises! Just follow/subscribe to make sure you see when the next chap is up!**

**OKAY. now that that's over with, on to my usual spiel: Tell what you thought of this chapter in the comments, you lovely readers you! Your feedback is like gold encrusted chocolate bars-that's how precious it is to me. **

**Thanks for reading! Until next time, darlings! **

**XOXO **


	12. A Harry Situation Part 2

**A/N: ****WARNING: SMUT (but it's diet smut. Smut-lite. Diluted smut)**

**For those who have been craving smuttier scenes, this one's for you *raises glass***

**For those who haven't, well, sorry not sorry.**

**But for real, if smutty stuff isn't your cup of tea, feel free to ignore that last few hundred words. In the beginning there's some implied smut, but it's so vanilla that it really doesn't merit a warning. **

**FEEDBACK GIVES ME LIFE (and inspiration to write *nudge nudge*)**

****ALSO, if you lovely readers haven't done so already, please check out my new Sherlock story! It's called "The Second Closest Sun" (it's post-reichenbeck, which means angst like whoa, but it's also a reunion fic, so look forward to that happy ending) and I'd endlessly appreciate if you guys let me know what you think of it! Thanks, loves J****

**~~Important questions in end notes, btw~~**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock is greeted by two extraordinary occurrences. One, there is a very warm, partially dressed army doctor tucked under his chin, absently pressing kisses to his bare chest (which wasn't bare when he fell asleep, so perhaps John removed his shirt for 'aesthetic purposes', yet again) and two, the hands of the aforementioned doctor are currently drumming something in Morse code against his bicep. He closes his eyes in thought and, within the span of three heart beats, realizes the message is 'I love you'.

_John loves him._

At that, Sherlock sighs like the hopelessly enamored idiot that he is, and presses a firm kiss against the top of John's sweet-smelling hair. Then another one for good measure. (And since all good things come in threes, he gives a third as well).

Although neither the cuddling or spelled-out love confessions are anything unusual—fortunately both of these things occur quite often —they are still endlessly profound, in that Sherlock feels uniquely grateful each time. He will never tire of waking up to John and hearing (or feeling) the words _I love you._ Though John's actions more than express his feelings for Sherlock, the detective appreciates the daily reaffirmation nonetheless.

"Mm, morning," John rasps, his voice roughened with sleep. A pleasant shiver runs down Sherlock's spine at the sound.

"Good morning, _passionate_ _lover."_

A chuckle rumbles in John's chest and Sherlock can feel the vibrations in his sternum. "I see yesterday's conversation stuck," he observes.

"Well not quite," Sherlock admits, absently running his hands over John's back, tapping his fingers against each vertebrae. "I'm afraid I was only indulging you, darling, I much prefer calling you by your name. 'John' has such a lovely ring to it."

John raises his head a bit and fondly pecks the underside of Sherlock's chin. "I like the way _darling_ sounds, actually. Feel free to make that my new pet-name."

Sherlock groans. "Must we have pet-names, John?"

"Of course," John scoffs. "Now," he says in mock seriousness, "would you like to be Sherl or love muffin?"

"Is none of the above an option?"

"Love muffin it is," John pronounces.

Sherlock considers putting up an argument, but then John props himself up on one elbow and presses his lips to the sharp angle of Sherlock's jaw, and suddenly arguing no longer seems relevant.

"Do you really think my name sounds lovely?" John asks, as he lazily peppers Sherlock's face with kisses. Sherlock sighs and tilts his head back, delighted when John takes the invitation and begins lavishing the exposed flesh of his throat.

"Mm, yes, it's poetry. You are poetry. You are—mmm—the sun and stars."

John grins against his Adams apple. "You know what I think?" he asks rhetorically—or at least Sherlock thinks it's rhetorical, otherwise how the hell does John expect him to formulate a response when such delicious things are happening to his neck? "I think you're only saying that because you're turned on."

"No, I—ah—mean it, but it's a little hard not to be 'turned on' when you keep—ahhh—doing this to me."

John chuckles darkly, licking a stripe up Sherlock's throat. "I wouldn't say it's a 'little' hard..."

"Really, John?" He says around a breathless chuckle, tangling his fingers into John's hair. "Innuendo? Bit cheesy, no?"

"No," John replies succinctly, sucking a bruise into the side of Sherlock's neck. "Besides, I think you like it."

"Fair enough," he manages, tugging John back up and latching onto his bottom lip. After about five minutes of glorious, uninterrupted snogging, John pulls away.

"By the way," John pants, mouth rosy and wet. "I phoned Harry and let her know we'd be heading up for the weekend. Does leaving at two this afternoon sound good?"

"What?" _That_ was why John ended their kiss? For Christ's sake! "Yes, yes, John, two sounds lovely," Sherlock says impatiently, "it's perfect and divine and blah blah blah. Now kindly return to kissing me."

"Bossy, bossy," John teases, but his mouth is already back to pressing warmly against Sherlock's, their tongues tangling and receding in the most bloody erotic manner Sherlock has ever experienced. After a moment, it's his turn to pull away.

"What is it?" John asks.

"Just needed to catch my breath," Sherlock replies around a grin, attempting to slow his delighted, thudding heart. After a moment, something occurs to Sherlock and he smirks mischievously. "I meant to ask earlier, but is there any particular reason you removed my shirt?"

John grins. "You'd truly like to know?"

"Of course, John. I'm a curious man."

"Hmm," John says in mock contemplation, as looms over Sherlock, lining up their torsos and—more deliciously—their hips. "Mostly for the sake of convenience. Makes it a lot quicker to get down to the good stuff if you're already half naked, love." Then, as if to prove his point, John grinds his hips down into Sherlock's.

Fireworks explode behind his eyelids and Sherlock hisses at the contact, nails scrambling for purchase in the back of John's shirt (which really should be off at this point). "Define good stuff," Sherlock grits out, fighting every urge to buck up into the sensation.

"And how do you propose I do that, Mr. Holmes?" John asks innocently.

Without a drop of dignity, Sherlock hooks his ankles behind John, pulling their bodies impossibly closer. The friction alone makes this bold move immediately worthwhile. After a few gasping breathes of composure, Sherlock replies, through gritted teeth, "I s-suggest a hands-on demonstration, Mr. Watson."

John laughs breathlessly and dives for his mouth. "_That_ I can do."

* * *

Three hours later, they are on their way to Harry's home in Eastbourne, and Sherlock is painfully reminded of why he detests long car rides. Aside from the obnoxious, upbeat music streaming from the radio and the endless, dull scenery passing by in the window, Sherlock feels incredibly nauseous.

"John," he complains for the fourth time in just as many minutes. "The car is bumping about too much. I feel sick." He drops his head against the cool glass of the window, savoring the brief reprieve the cold surface offers.

"I know, love," John consoles yet again. "Just close your eyes and have a quick kip; maybe that'll help."

"You know I despise sleep," he mutters, his breath fogging up the window.

"Yes, but I'm sure you despise car sickness even more. Just give it a try, okay? Quiet your mind, take deep breaths, slow your—"

"For Christ sakes, John, I know the process of sleeping!"

Instead of getting irritated at his moodiness, as most people would have, John only sighs in commiseration and rubs Sherlock's turned back with his free hand. "Would it help if you drove, maybe?"

"I'm a rubbish driver and I'm sure you'd prefer that we arrive to your sister's in one piece."

When John's only response is silence, Sherlock assumes he's given up and reassumed his focus on driving. Sherlock sighs, feeling minutely rejected—which he knows is the incredibly juvenile, because there really isn't anything John can do about his condition.

"Okay, I have an idea," John announces a minute later, and some small, needy part of Sherlock's mind sighs in relief. _He does care._

"Go on," Sherlock replies, biting back his smile.

"Well, I figure if I can find something to distract you with, the nausea will be forgotten. That big brilliant brain of yours is bound to zero in on any sensation you feel, which is why if I give it something else to focus on, you'll notice the sickness less. Sound good?"

"Actually, yes," Sherlock admits in surprise, even going as far as sitting up for the occasion.

"Okay, first distraction; A cowboy rides into town on his horse on a Monday—"

"The horse's name is Friday."

"What gets wetter as it—"

"A towel."

"What is light as a feather, but bigger than a—"

"A shadow. Honestly John, are these the best riddles you have to offer? The answers are visible from a mile away."

John purses his lips in thought, eyes narrowed on the road. "Aha!" he cries after a moment of deliberation. "Alright, what walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and then three legs at night?"

Sherlock's brow immediately crinkles in befuddlement. "Nothing! There is no such creature that grows and loses appendages based on the time of day! I suppose if this creature were given some sort of supplement, then the rapid regrowth of legs _might_ be possible, but I sincerely doubt this riddle has taken into account recent breakthroughs in the scientific world. Though perhaps I do not credit the author of this puzzle enough; perhaps they were aware of the recently developed collagen powder derived from pigs' bladders that reportedly allowed a man to grow his fingertip back in just a month. Though, that experiment occurred just outside of Cincinnati a few months ago, and according to the confident manner you recited that riddle, you've told it before—definitely during your childhood—meaning that its creation could not have been recent enough to align with the collagen powder. I would suggest that it's a starfish—some sort of chemically-enhanced starfish with the ability to regrow limbs at thirty times the normal rate—except the riddle specifically used the word "walk" and by no means can a starfish "walk". Therefore I suppose I am forced to admit defeat. What is the answer?"

John smiles to himself, looking entirely too smug for Sherlock's liking. "It's a human."

_"__Pardon?" _

"Yeah, when humans are at the earliest stage of their lives—'morning'—they crawl on four legs, in the middle of their lives—afternoon—they walk on two legs, and at the end of their lives—night—they walk with a cane, which counts as their third 'leg'. Clever, right?"

Sherlock just sits there, body tight and drawn like a bow, mouth gaping like a goldfish. "Th-that's not bloody clever," he sputters. "That's completely illogical!"

"How so?" John asks calmly, completely unperturbed despite Sherlock's rising tone.

"For one, canes are not exclusive to the elderly—you, John, are living proof of this—two, not all adults walk on two legs—there are a multitude of people who are either disabled or temporarily crippled—and three, how was I supposed to know the bloody time symbolized the stages of one's life? And who decided that life consist of only beginning, middle, and end? What about the myriad of moments and milestones that are wedged between childhood, adulthood, and old age? Who's to say that a single lifespan could even—"

"Sherlock," John interrupts.

_"__What."_

"Do you feel less car sick?"

Sherlock tilts his head and attempts to summon the sensation of illness, only to find his nausea completely gone. He briefly considers lying for the sake of continuing his rant, but decides against it, his sudden restoration of health putting him in good spirits. "Yes, actually."

"Good," John says in satisfaction, briefly leaning over to peck his cheek. "Mission accomplished. Now be a lamb and turn up the radio, will you? I love the Beatles."

* * *

Harry's home in one word is small. In two words, it is small and shabby. And in many words, it is: A Very Incredibly Small Home That Could Really Use the Assistance of a Home-Makeover Telly Crew.

Being that Eastbourne as a whole is a town surrounded primarily by water and sea birds, he shouldn't be so surprised to find that Harriet's house falls in sync with its surroundings. The exterior appears to be made out of the same poorly-painted white planks that comprised the pier they passed a few miles back; the air smells quite distinctly of fish and salt, and the windows look just as grubby and stained as those of the quaint houseboat he and John winced at on the way over. It is quite isolated—devoid entirely of any neighbor for at least a ten minutes' drive—yet somehow surrounded by clusters of small businesses and eateries. It's all very rural and simple and overwhelmingly pungent with the smell of the ocean.

Sherlock immediately longs for the familiar hustle-and-bustle of city life.

He is so lost in his musings that he nearly forgets John is by his side, only remembering when the doctor gives a long sigh and examines the front yard with resignation. "I told her to use that contractor," he mumbles, kicking aside an upturned clump of grass. "But the woman will not listen to me—nope, she'd rather live in some half-arsed beach shack with more salt in the framework than on the kitchen table."

"It's…nice."

John's miffed expression immediately melts into one of amusement. "No need to fib. However, I will tell you that it used to look much worse before Clara came in and cleaned it up." A sad look ghosts over his face. "Now that she's gone, I suppose it all went to shite again."

"Ah." Sherlock narrows his eyes and examines the premise. "In spite of her spouse's departure, she has been maintaining her sobriety for," his gaze darts over the scrapes on the front door's lock, then the angle of the blinds, "seven months. Excellent."

"You could tell that all from her front door?" John sounds duly impressed, which never fails to send Sherlock's heart aflutter.

"Yes," he says primly, a small smile threatening to turn up a corner of his mouth. "Well, to be fair, the door_ and_ the blinds."

John grins and stands on his toes to give Sherlock a peck on the cheek. "You're brilliant. Now what do you say we get this show on the road?" John grabs his hand and pulls him the remaining few paces, until they are standing only a few inches from the door. John raises his fist and knocks twice.

After a nearly nonexistent wait, the door swings open. "Johnny!"

The moment he lays eyes on Harriet, Sherlock attempts to catalogue every resemblance she has to her brother. Though both she and John have dirty-blonde hair and relatively short statures, the similarities begin and end there. Whereas John's eyes are a dark, mottled blue—reminiscent of storming oceans—Harry's eyes are a bright copper color, like tarnished pennies. Harriet's figure is considerably petite in bone structure, but there are no curves to speak of, and her shoulders are far sharper than John's. In contrast to her brother's strong, square hands, Harriet's are thin and small, and her complexion lacks the natural bronze undertones that tan John's skin; Harriet also has a smattering of cinnamon-colored freckles spilled across the bridge of her nose, whereas John has only a few random birthmarks to boast of. When Harriet grins, he realizes that she and John also have quite lovely smiles—that kind that stretch across their face and color every feature with pleasure. Sherlock supposes if he somehow wound up in an alternative universe in which he was interested in women and _not _dating her brother, he might find Harriet attractive. Maybe. Perhaps.

Though, that is really no surprise, since anyone who shares John's genes is bound to look at least somewhat appealing.

By the time his little inspection is over, it's only been a few seconds, but in that short span of time Harry manages to leap over the threshold and tackle John in a suffocating hug; then, once John manages to extricate himself, she playfully ruffles up his carefully combed hair. He allows it, a half-fond, half-annoyed look on his face. "You're a bloody menace, you know that, Hare?"

She grins impishly and swats his shoulder. "Oi! Johnny, that's _Miss_ Bloody Menace to you. Respect your elders."

John rolls his eyes good naturedly and turns to Sherlock. "And this, Harry, is the friend I was telling you about over the phone." He smiles up at Sherlock and Sherlock returns the warm gesture, momentarily oblivious to anything except for John's deep-blue eyes.

"I see," she says thoughtfully, then turns the full force of her stare onto Sherlock, crooking a single brow expectantly. It takes a few awkward beats before Sherlock realizes he is supposed to say something.

His mind barrels through the several conversation starters he Googled this morning, but all of them suddenly sounds stupid and trite. He thinks (and thinks and thinks and thinks) to no avail. Then, because social interactions have never been his forte, the first thing Sherlock can think of also happens to be the first thing to trip—unchecked—out of his mouth.

"John, your sister is taller than you."

There is a long beat of silence in which Harry just stares at him, as scrutinizing and thorough as a hawk, before she does the last thing he expects, and_ laughs_: a loud, genuine bark of laughter that jars him, if only because he expected her to scowl or level him with a judgmental glare, or something of the like. Instead of doing either of the aforementioned, she takes his hand and proceeds to pump his arm like she's churning butter.

"I like you," she pronounces, and from what John has told, those words rarely pass her lips; he recognizes the value of them immediately.

"I'm pleased," he volleys back, matching her strong grip. "I'm Sherlock Holmes, wonderful to finally meet you."

"Same can be said for me, Mr. Holmes. Harriet Watson. Now, I don't imagine it's particularly comfortable out there in the chill, so why don't you two come on in?" Harry steps out of the threshold and extends an arm, inviting them into the house.

. . .

After they been divested of their shoes and seated in Harry's (surprisingly cozy) sitting room, Harriet turns her attention to Sherlock once more.

"What do you think of my home?" she asks, a mischievous glint in her eye. In the back of his mind, his intuition warns him that this is a test. He considers lying, but since he's certain she would prefer honesty, he vouches for the truth instead.

"It suits you quite perfectly," he replies–and it does. The cozy, haphazard construction of the house completely matches what he knows of her personality.

Harry grins widely, revealing a silver-capped molar and one partially chipped incisor. "Good answer. I love this house, so that, Mr. Holmes, is the greatest compliment you could have paid me. Tea?"

"That would be marvelous, thank you."

When she leaves the room to get the drinks, John squeezes his hand and leans closer to Sherlock on the sofa, a pleased look on his face. "She likes you, Sherlock. She truly bloody likes you."

* * *

At dinner, Sherlock makes a point of eating everything Harry puts on his plate—despite his usual aversion to stuffing himself—and once he's consumed all that he possibly can, he offers to help clean up.

"No, Sherlock, really, I've got it," John insists, even though he has no obligation to play the polite host; this isn't his house, after all. Sherlock fondly notes that it is simply in John's nature to want to ease someone else's troubles: to take an unpleasant task for himself instead of having another person do it. Still, Sherlock is intent on making this weekend as seamless and enjoyable as possible, which means not allowing John to do something as dull as washing dishes. His time would be much better spent catching up with Harry.

"John, I insist," Sherlock replies, humbly.

"No, Sherlock, I insist," he counters.

When Sherlock stands, John stands with him, and they both end up staring at each other from across the kitchen in a polite stalemate.

"If we were at home you'd love if I did the dishes," Sherlock argues.

"Right, but this is a vacation. You're supposed to enjoy yourself, not do chores."

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest and raises a brow. "Yes, John, but you're supposed to enjoy yourself as well. I want you to have a good time this weekend."

John, obstinate as a mule, replies, "I'll have a jolly good time doing the dishes."

"Oh? Well I'll have a grand time doing the dishes."

"It'll make my day if I do them."

"It'll make my week if—"

"My god! Will the both of you daft, ridiculous fools just shut it already?" Harry cries at last, leaping from her chair with an exasperated look on her face. "Johnny and I will do them, Sherlock; you just sit there and look pretty." Sherlock begins to protest, but she silences him with the 'does it look like I'm asking' scowl that John gives him whenever he whines about having to remove his experiments from the tub. Sherlock figures that look must run in the Watson family. "That was not a question, luv."

Obediently, Sherlock shuts his mouth and sulkily sinks back into his chair. When John brushes by on his way to the sink, he tosses Sherlock a triumphant look, which Sherlock only forgives due to the fact that John prefaces it with a loud kiss on the cheek.

Harry rolls her eye at the display, but a corner of her mouth turns up in endearment, so Sherlock figures she isn't too suspicious. Instead of joining John at the sink, she makes her way over to a little drawer underneath the silverware cabinet and begins digging around for something.

"Here," she says to Sherlock after a moment of searching, "While us Watsons do dull, domestic things, why don't you help yourself to these?" Harry procures a thick leather-bound book practically bursting from the sheer volume of pages and loose leaf papers held within it. "It's our family photo album," she explains, flipping it open. The pages are surprisingly clean considering the age of the book, which leads Sherlock to believe that she revisits it often. "Our aunt took a ridiculous amount of photos of Johnny when he was a kid, and most of them are either bloody hilarious or absolutely adorable. I think the latest one is the picture he sent me the day before he was shipped off to Afghanistan."

When she hands Sherlock the book, he accepts it eagerly, fingertips itching to trace each photograph and memorize every shape. It is things like this that make John so utterly fascinating; all of these little nuances and tidbits that Sherlock has yet to learn about John make him into the most unique puzzle Sherlock has ever had the pleasure of coming across.

A few minutes later, Sherlock reaches a brightly colored page embellished with puffy stickers, gold glitter, and the carefully penned title: "Johnny's Prom"—however, there is a no picture within the construction-paper frame at the center of the page.

He frowns. "Where is the photograph?"

Harry turns around mid-scrub, soap dripping from her fingertips, and smiles. "_That_ you can thank Johnny for. There used to be a picture—a particularly charming one, I might add—but Mr. Sourpuss over here didn't like the way he looked in it, so as soon as he got his mitts on it the book, he removed it." She rolls her eyes and playfully swats the arm of the man in question. "Maybe you ought to dig up that photo and show Sherlock, eh Johnny?"

John immediately dons an innocent expression. "You know, Hare, I really would, but it's been years and I have no idea where I stuck that picture. Could be buried beneath the piles of trash in the attic for all I know."

"John, that's not true," Sherlock counters bluntly, narrowing his eyes. "You're fidgeting far too much for that to be anything but a lie." John's mouth moves soundlessly like a goldfish, apparently trying to express whatever half-arsed excuse he's prepared, but no rebuttal is forthcoming.

"Show me," Sherlock demands, then after a moment of self-awareness, rephrases the request in a politer tone. "Please, John, I'd like to see the photograph."

John purses his lips and then sighs at the ceiling, but even before he says "Alright, fine", Sherlock is well-aware that he's given in. With a mock annoyed look, John pops out of the kitchen to go and retrieve the picture.

"Here," John says once he's returned minutes later, a small stack of papers in his hand. Sherlock wastes no time in leaping up and accepting the items, feeling irrationally excited to see John in his teenage years. It takes Sherlock less than five minutes to flip through the stack and locate the photo in question. In it, John is standing next to his date—who is slightly taller than him but otherwise quite forgettable—smiling shyly at the camera, youthful eyes sparkling like sapphires. He is leaning against the wall behind them, one hand tucked casually into his suit pocket, the other wrapped loosely around his date's waist (indicating platonic affection rather than attraction), his honey-brown hair mussed artfully and his pale blue tie in deliberate disarray.

Sherlock thinks he looks absolutely charming.

"Well?" Harry says after a few silent moments. "What do you think? Bloody adorable, right?"

Sherlock coughs, valiantly attempting to hide the blush staining his cheeks, and quickly tucks the photograph into his wallet. "You, er, don't mind if I hold on to this do you, Harry?"

Harriet just grins and gives him a fond pat on the shoulder, chuckling to herself when she notices John's raised eyebrows and flattered expression. "Well, I'm okay with it. What do you say, Johnny?"

"Fine by me," John concedes, a small smile lighting his features.

* * *

It isn't until Sherlock is on John's eighteenth birthday and the pile of dishes are down to just cups and forks, that Harry finally asks the Big Question. In a voice that is entirely too casual to be considered 'natural', she ventures, "So, Johnny, what's new with you and Sherlock?"

John's spine stiffens imperceptibly and his scrubbing falters. It takes him only a second to recover, but Sherlock has seen enough to know that John is still feeling nervous about finally explaining the status of their—relationship.

"Not much," John assures. "The usual: crime scenes, working at the clinic, hanging around the Yard looking for cases. Nothing new, really."

Harry sets the sponge down and puts her hands on her hips, leveling John with the full force of her scrutinizing stare. "Right, yeah, I meant 'you and Sherlock' as in you and Sherlock. If you try to tell me that the two of you are just mates, I'm going to helpfully remind you that you've never checked out the arses of 'just mates' before. Nor have you kissed them on the cheek."

Sherlock presses his thumb to the page to remember his place and looks up, intrigued. "You were staring at my arse?" Interesting, because these aren't even the trousers that usually prompt John to 'check out' his backside. He quickly makes a mental note that John finds this pair—as well as the slim-fitting black slacks—attractive.

Harry pointedly ignores Sherlock, but the look in her eyes is amused. "Granted, he's got a perky bum and it's bound to draw the eye, but, Johnny, you haven't stopped staring at him and swooning since you two arrived. You're clearly head over heels."

John—red-faced and wide eyed—is saved from responding when Harry continues with, "And I want you to know that I'm really happy for you alright?

John nods stiffly, but some of the tension has already left his frame, and for that Sherlock is grateful. "You're not…surprised?" John asks tentatively.

"Surprised? At what, the fact that it's Sherlock or that it's a man in general?"

"Mostly the latter."

Harry sighs and looks at John as if the answer should be obvious. "Johnny, I don't know if you're aware of this, but I've known you for some time now. Try, thirty something years. I know you're not gay, but you're also not straight. It's just taken you a million years to understand the fluidity of sexuality; it's not always black and white, you know? I mean, for some it is, of course. Take me for example; I've never been interested in anything but the fairer sex. In your case, Johnny, you've always been interested in women, but now, well," Harry smiles, "now you're interested in a gorgeous detective with the face of a romantic poet and the voice of a bloody angel. I'd say you got a pretty good deal."

Sherlock rubs his hand contemplatively over the side of his jaw. _Face of a romantic poet? Interesting._

"I'd say so, yes," John agrees happily.

"So, just to clarify, you two_ are_ shagging then?" Harry confirms.

"No. Well,_ yes_—Christ, Hare, do you really need to be so crass?"

She smirks. With a hint of self-deprecation, she sings, "Well, Johnny, it's either crass or drunk, you pick your favorite."

"Is there another option?" John asks sarcastically as he hands her the next mug to dry.

She takes the cup and begins scrubbing the towel over it. "Sure. Once every blue moon, I indulge in kindness, and when the stars align just right I'm even considerate."

"Any chance you'll be either this weekend?" asks John drily.

"Nope!" Harry replies cheerily. "But lucky for you, your posh little boy toy brought something decent for pudding, so I might consider being tolerable. However that all depends on whether the cake is chocolate or double chocolate."

Without looking up from six year old John splashing around in a bathtub, Sherlock replies, "Double chocolate, of course. John has quite the sweet tooth and I assumed it was hereditary."

Harry puts down the dish she is holding and bows her head in mock prayer, dramatically wiping an invisible tear from her cheek. "Bless this man."

"God, Harry," John snorts. "It's just cake. No need to construct a shrine in his honor."

"You're right; I'm sure you've already got one at home," Harry shoots back with a cheeky smirk. "I swear, I've only seen you two around each other for one evening and your lovey-dovey crap is already giving me cavities."

Sherlock looks up from the book, indignant. "In what way are we 'lovey-dovey'?"

Harry grins like a Cheshire cat and leans back against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest. "Well, luv, you've been ogling Johnny this whole time, as if you're unsure whether you want to snog the living daylights out of him or erect a statue in his honor. You two are just so bloody into each other." She grins, eyes bright. "May I expect a happy announcement soon?"

John smiles briefly at his shoes and turns a curious shade of red. He clears his throat and averts his eyes to the fridge. "Er, how about that cake now?"

* * *

Sometime after ten o' clock, Harry ushers the two of them to their room. "Now, you and Sherlock will be staying in the guest bedroom, which happens to be one thin wall away from mine, so I'd prefer if the 'nighttime festivities' were put on hold until you lot return to London. If you can't manage to stifle your hormones for that long, as least poke your head out and loudly suggest that I take a walk or perhaps visit the shops." Harry props her hands on her hips and raises a brow. "Understood?"

. . .

When John walks into their room a half hour later, Sherlock discovers that following Harry's instructions is a lot harder than he thought. At the sight of John's bare torso and shower-wet hair, Sherlock falls back onto the bed and groans, dramatically throwing his forearm over his eyes. "For Christ sakes, John, how am I supposed to adhere to Harry's rules if you go walking around half-naked like that?"

"I am not half-naked, I have shorts on!" John replies indignantly. "You're the one who's parading around here with your bloody hipbones on display!"

Sherlock sits up. "My hipbones are _not_ on display!"

John raises an eyebrow. "Oh really? Stand up." When Sherlock reluctantly does so, John's eyes fall accusingly to his pelvis. "There, see? Those sweats are all low-slung and loose and your bloody t-shirt is riding up like mad—I mean, I can see your hips, your abdomen, your waist, your…" John trails off, momentarily distracted.

"John."

"Mm? Right, what was I saying? Oh yes: you're flaunting your goods like it's a damn strip show!"

Sherlock considers arguing back, but his incredibly wise hormones advise a different course of action—one that he is more than inclined to agree with. Instead of replying, he smirks and makes his way over to John in two steps; there, Sherlock looms over him like a shadow, his hands ghosting John's waist. "You wish."

John licks his lips and Sherlock watches, infatuated, as his pink tongue darts over the delectable plush of his bottom lip. "Yeah," John murmurs, sliding closer, his hands resting at Sherlock's sides, his thumbs rubbing circles into the jut of Sherlock's hipbones. "I do. Unfortunately, love, I'm not that patient."

And in what feels like no time at all, John is angling their heads so that the pecking phase of kissing is completely skipped, allowing their first connection to be an openmouthed, completely unabashed snog. John licks his way into Sherlock's mouth, curling his tongue against Sherlock's, tasting the seam of his lips and the backs of his teeth. Sherlock kisses back with equal fervor, boiling-hot desire flaring low in his abdomen, his hands firmly grasping the sharp angles of John's jaw within his large palms.

"Less shirt," John pants, tearing his mouth away with an obscene wet sound. "Less sweats too."

"Yeah," Sherlock agrees breathlessly, tugging the shirt off in one smooth action. The sweats, however, prove to be more difficult. The stupid bloody drawstring on the waist is tied into the world's tightest knot, and Sherlock's brain currently lacks the blood and focus required to undo it. After three seconds of useless fumbling, he groans—and not in the happy way. "John, _help_."

John immediately drops to his knees and tries his hand at untying the knot, but unfortunately finds the same result. "Godbuggeringdamn Sherlock, is this some sort of makeshift chastity belt?"

"John," Sherlock complains, so frustrated that he considers stomping his foot. "Just get them off!"

"I'm trying, but it's so—bloody—difficult. Okay! You know what? I'm just gonna make it work." Then, without further explanation or warning, John puts both palms on Sherlock's arse and begins sucking on the detective's right hipbone. _Loudly._

John's moans soak into his skin and shoot through Sherlock's veins like fire, the sensation of John's mouth making him light-headed with pleasure. "Christ," Sherlock says weakly, carding his hands through John's hair. After a few more heavenly moments, John turns his attention to the other hip, latching on and sucking a matching love bite into the pale skin, his strong hands kneading Sherlock's arse.

"Wish these sweats weren't in the way," John murmurs against his skin, using the heel of his palm to massage Sherlock's achingly hard erection.

"John, oh god," Sherlock groans, tossing his head back, throat bared to the ceiling. Encouraged, John wraps his fingers around his clothed length, pumping him in delicious, frantic jerks.

"W-wait, John, not like this." Sherlock depletes his entire stash of self-control by stepping away from the delicious sensation and pulling John up. "Bed, now," he demands, kissing John and backing him up until the backs of his knees hit the bed. Once Sherlock finds himself sprawled over John, he begins working on a love bite—scratch that, _multiple _love bites—on the side of John's neck.

"I am going to blow your bloody mind, John Watson," Sherlock pants against John's throat, one hand tangled in John's hair, the other slipping inside the elastic of his pants.

And Sherlock might have made good on that promise, if they weren't then interrupted by several loud knocks at the door and Harry's voice. "When I said the walls are thin," she shouts, "_I meant it!_ Just as a personal preference, I'd rather _not_ hear you two smacking lips and humping my hard-earned furniture while I'm trying to read Pride and bloody Prejudiced!"

From underneath Sherlock, John hisses, "We were_ not_ humping her damned furniture!" Sherlock erases the grumpy look with a few quick (wet, dirty, open-mouthed) kisses, then raises his head to address Harry through the door.

"Perhaps you ought to visit the shops?" he suggests hopefully.

Harry makes a disgusted sound but thankfully moves away, all the while muttering audibly about 'damned men and their damned libidos' and something about 'screwing like rabbits'. "I'll be out for an hour or so, I suggest you take care of _business _in that amount of time," Harry calls from the hallway. "If I come back and hear ONE bloody moan, someone is sleeping on the sofa, got it?" Sherlock waits until the door slams and silence settles, before turning his attention back to John and lifting a mischievous brow.

"Now, where were we, Doctor?"

* * *

**A/N:**

**First of all, thanks bunches and bunches for reading (as usual), and I'd REALLY appreciate some feedback on the smut. This is the first time I've ever written the word—drum roll, please—ERECTION in any story ever (usually I skirt around it in every way imaginable haha) so I am super eager to hear what y'all think about that last scene! It was basically the product of the fact that I am obsessed with hipbones, I have been neck-deep in destiel smut lately (my writing tends to reflect what I am reading), and, last but not least, a decent amount of people on this website /and/ (where I've also been updating this story) have been requesting a little peek at Johnlock's sex life. THIS, my darlings, is the happy compromise I have arrived at for those people (but I have NO intention of writing anything insanely explicit. This is about as smutty as it'll get)**

**~~QUESTION TIME~~**

**Since this story has a billion different Johnlock Established!relationship scenes I can incorporate, I'd like to know what you guys have in mind! Without a doubt, Molly and Mummy will be making their respective reappearances, though if you have any particular scenario you'd like them in, feel free to comment that as well. Otherwise, just let me know if there's a specific setting/scene/character interaction or even clip of dialogue you'd like me to incorporate!**

**Because honestly guys, "Definitions"s flexibility is one of my favorite things about this story. Of course I have a loose plotline I intend to follow, but anything can happen along the way ;)**

**Thanks again for reading, my darling readers, until next time!**

**XOXO Justlikewater **


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